


City Of The Wind

by iluxia



Series: Windcity Saga [1]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fantasy, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-14
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iluxia/pseuds/iluxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complete. Tezuka, a mage for the castle, takes a shortcut through the West square, and finds an inconspicuous old oak door that draws him forward. There, inside the dark and dusty room, was a golden-eyed boy. Magical AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aventria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aventria/gifts).



> Inspired by Monica Wood’s “The Pocket Muse” and FunctionJunction KEIKO’s "[Kaze no Machi e](http://www.divshare.com/download/4519748-d83)" (from Tsubasa RESERVoir Chronicles). Originally [posted on LiveJournal](http://iluxia.livejournal.com/57874.html#cutid1) with the soundtrack embedded within the story.

The first time he came upon the inconspicuous old oak door was on a fairly cloudy day. The sun was out, but it lacked warmth. Dappled cold sunlight shed upon the kingdom, along with a gentle breeze that ruffled hairs and dresses here and there.   
  
Days like these were days when a feel of melancholy drifted in the air. It was as if the earth was showing its longing for something distant, as if the kingdom was celebrating the memory of those who no longer walked underneath sun. It was a beautiful day, but it was a sad day.  
  
The door was of aged oak, carved and embellished with patterns of flowering vines on the sides. The handle was of either gold of silver, he could not tell, but he was certain it was either one. Here and there among the carved flowers were fairly deep dents, as if there were chunks of something previously inlaid in the wood. He suspected this door was a jeweled door, leading to a room that used to be for the royal family. After all, this was the old West square of the castle.  
  
Braving the old and failing handle, he reached over and pulled it open.  
  


 

_T_ _oki no mukou kaze no machi e_

_Ne, tsureteite_

_Shiroi hana no yume kanaete_

  
  
Dust billowed out from inside the sealed room, a loud creak-and-groan coming from the failing door. He moved back, covering his nose and trying to keep his glasses free of grit and grime.   
  
As the dust settled, he stepped forward, his impeccably orderly robes catching some of the dirt on the hem. He shifted the bound journal he was carrying in his arms and moved cautiously into the darkened room.  
  
He was no stranger to magic. For the kingdom, magic was a way of life. All children of the earth were granted gifts of magic upon birth, strengthened by blessings and bonds from parents and family as the child grew. Few were exceptionally strong, even within the mighty royal family. These exceptionally strong ones were grafted from the common folk and taken into the Monasteries for training until they were fit to become either acolytes or mages and serve the kingdom.  
  
He was one of the strong children.  
  
Waving his hand over a nearby torch, fire sprang to life. Careful to keep the door wide open, he stepped forward and waved his hands again. Another torch sprang to life, as well as a few candles on a side table right underneath it.  
  
The light, he noticed, was quite unnatural. Imbued with magic, it had streaks of brilliant green within the yellow-orange flame — but he hadn’t done anything to imbue the flame with magic. It had to be the room, he thought to himself. The room, he could feel, was practically bathing in pure earth magic.  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
He started and whirled around, only to find himself falling into brilliant golden eyes.  
  
  
 __

_Amai yubi de kono te wo tori  
_

_Ne, tooi michi wo  
_

_Michibiite hoshii no_ __

_Anata no soba e_

  
  
Mind racing, he snapped his fingers, and the entire room blazed bright as day with light. Torches flamed on the walls, and candles sputtered with fire. Dusty lamps bathed corners of the impossibly spacious room and rid it from darkness for the first time in a decade.  
  
It was a boy, he found, a boy, barely fourteen or fifteen — shorter than the average, thin and underfed. His eyes were of unsettlingly beautiful gold fire, and his dark hair was streaked a peculiar green tinge — an indication, no doubt, of a strong gift of magic. The boy wore old and dirty clothes — rags at first sight, but brightly colored robes on closer inspection.   
  
“Who are you?” the boy asked. His voice had a certain husk to it, sending shivers down Tezuka’s spine.  
  
“I could ask you the same question,” his cautious reply.  
  
The boy gave him a steady, scrutinizing stare. “You have magic. Strong magic. Who are you?” he rasped again, voice rusty from disuse. Brilliant golden eyes implored him to answer.  
  
“I am a mage of the castle. And you are?”  
  
The boy remained silent, staring at him for one, two more heartbeats. The boy then turned and headed for the room’s sealed and draped windows, waving his hands over them. The drapes lifted and were rid of dust, and the windows were revealed and scrubbed to cleanliness. There was a small porch beyond the glass doors, and the view was of the West square’s old unkempt gardens. The porch opened into one of the paths, and the path led off into the hedgerow mazes, which was by now a confusion of twists and turns nobody would be able to navigate.  
  
“Don’t you think we take life for granted, mage?” the boy asked.  
  
A butterfly flittered into the room as the windows were pushed open to let in the ample breeze.

Tezuka could not bring himself to think of a proper reply, but he really did not need to, because the Monastery bells were ringing, and he was late.

 

~

 

The second time Tezuka took the shortcut through the West wing was two days after. He had resolutely convinced himself that he would never venture into the wings again, but he found that he really had no choice — the old and separate section of the library was just too far from the Monasteries, and unless he took the shortcut, he would be late for the court meetings.  
  
He marched right past the doors, eyes never wavering from the corridor’s sunlit path. He was thankful that the one side of the corridors was open to a wide and unkempt court garden, and the sun could stream in to illuminate his way. It would be far too dreary otherwise.  
  
However, before he could turn into the pathway that opened to another garden beside the Monasteries, a voice called behind him, “You left your journal, mage.”  
  
He stopped mid-stride, and turned to find the boy, now in clean robes, standing in the middle of the partly sunlit corridor and holding out his journal.  
  
 _Strange_ , Tezuka thought. Under the sun, the boy looked like a faint shadow of a person, as if one could see right through him. But of course Tezuka could not, for ghosts did not exist.  
  
Cautiously approaching, Tezuka gently took the bound journal and tucked it into his arms. “Thank you.”  
  
“What is your name?” the boy asked. There was something different in those eyes.  
  
“…Tezuka.”  
  
“Tezuka.” A faint smile flittered over the boy’s face. He slowly made his way back towards his room. “You’ll need to hurry, Tezuka, or you’ll be late for the court.”  
  
And as a phantom, he was gone.

 

~

 

 _This is foolish_ , Tezuka faintly thought.  
  
His enchanted clock informed him that it was one in the morning, and yet here he was, up and unsettled. He could not, for the life of all that was magical, bring himself to sleep. There was something tickling at the back of his consciousness, something he could not put his finger on but knew was there.  
  
Sighing, he relinquished the quill into the ink bottle and closed his journal. There was no hope of doing any work when his mind was elsewhere. He turned the lamplight down into a gentle flickering flame, much like a firefly’s light, and placed it beside his bed. He then stepped out into his foyer, one that overlooked the hills beyond the Monastery.   
  
However, something else caught his eye.  
  
As he looked over to his far left, he faintly saw an outline of a person walking through one of the gardens — he frowned.   
  
_Since when was there a walled garden beside the Old Library’s courtyards?_  
  
Picking up his outer robes and pulling them on, he waved his hand to extinguish the lamplight and strode out of his room. He did not know when he stopped by the kitchens to pick up a basket of food, but apparently he did, for the basket was in his hand as he strode through the gardens and into the old and abandoned West square.  
  
Now that he thought back on it, he was neither taught nor had he heard or read anything about why the West square, a small but beautiful piece of the castle, was abandoned. No one ever stepped into the square’s vicinity, for fear of _something — what_ thing, Tezuka did not know. He had always assumed it was the age and the derelict state of the square that drove people away, but now, the boy he met was making him reconsider his assumptions.  
  
As he arrived at the room’s old oak doors, he stopped.  
  
 _What am I doing?_ He asked himself. _Why am I here? I should not be here. This place is forbidden —_  
  
“Are you going to stand there all night, Tezuka?” called a voice — sweeter and deeper than his mere and flawed memory could ever remember — from beyond the doors.  
  
He could not help but step in.

 

~

 

_Sono utagoe taenai hirusagari_   
__

_Mezamete futari wa hitotsu ni nari_   
__

_Shiawase no imi wo hajimete shirunodeshou_   
__

_Tsureteite…_

_  
_


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "[Resilience No. 2](http://www.divshare.com/download/4467392-f51)" from the soundtrack of the movie Shindou.

“You came.” Tonight, the boy was wearing a brilliant smile. Tezuka let himself be pulled into the room, hearing the door click back into place behind him. “I was hoping you would. It was quite lonely playing in the gardens by myself.”  
  
Tezuka never really fully took in the room the first time he invited himself in. It was a wide room that had curved walls lined with endless books on shelves. There was a big circular bed off to the far corner, where it met with the wide wall that had nothing but windows. A fireplace was set in the midst of the books, and there was another door, presumably leading to the wardrobe and bathrooms. There was a grand piano near the windows, and music sheets were spread upon it, as if someone was just playing.  
  
“Do you play?” the boy asked from behind him as he walked over to the piano and gently brushed his fingertips over the keys.  
  
Tezuka briefly smiled. “I used to.”  
  
The boy walked up to his side, putting his left hand above the keys beside Tezuka’s right hand. They were awfully mismatched. “Why did you stop?”  
  
“I had to train my Craft,” he explained simply.  
  
“Ah,” sniffed the boy in disdain. “The Monasteries and their monstrosities. Instead of growing the magic, they tether and bind it, constrict it so it cannot breathe, much like how you would do a decorative plant — prune and keep it within shape so it does not grow to be ‘unruly’.”  
  
Tezuka lifted an eyebrow. “You sound like you know a terrible lot about the Monasteries.”  
  
The boy merely shrugged, pushing away the topic as easy as one would brush off dust. He then turned towards Tezuka with an eager smile, his eyes darting towards the basket the mage was still holding. “Food?”  
  
Wordlessly, he handed the basket over. The next thing he knew, he was being dragged past the old porch pillar and out into the gardens. The boy led him to a beautiful cherry blossom tree, one that was in full bloom. Bathed in moonlight, it was a breathtaking sight — and so was the boy.  
  
Pale skin gleamed under blue moonlight, and golden eyes glowed with warmth and fire. Full lips, immaculately high cheekbones, a gentle and almost feminine jaw, smoothly slanting eyebrows — truly, this mysterious young man was a masterpiece to behold.  
  
“Perhaps you plan on staring at me all night?” the boy playfully teased, smiling a coy smile. When Tezuka resolutely looked away, the boy laughed. “Go on, no need to deny it! I’m quite breathtaking, and I’m well aware of it.”  
  
Tezuka’s lip twitched.  
  
The boy dissolved into merry giggles, snatching one of the truffles from the basket. Fireflies beautifully illuminated the gardens which, no matter how grown out and unruly it had become, was just perfect.  
  
“You don’t talk much, do you,” the boy sighed after a while, having finished the set of truffles Tezuka managed to filch from the Monastery kitchens.  
  
“Sorry,” Tezuka apologized, but the boy waved him off.  
  
“I’m not saying that silence is a bad thing,” the boy replied. “After a while, you get so used to silence that it feels alien to be without it.”  
  
“Have you always been alone in here?” Tezuka asked, cautious but curious.  
  
“Not anymore.” The boy smiled at him. “Thank you for coming to visit, Tezuka.”  
  
Tezuka’s eyes stayed on the smiling face for a heartbeat, before straying off towards the distant Monastery towers. “I could faintly see you from over there.”  
  
“What were you doing up this time of the night?” There was rustling as the boy dug into the basket to get a piece of bread. “You are a mage; you have quite a lot of duties. Surely you cannot afford to lose sleep?”  
  
“I could not sleep,” Tezuka answered in full honesty. Again, his lips twitched into a small smile. “A boy with golden eyes was bothering me.”  
  
“Really now,” the boy said. “What was this boy bothering you about that he could not put off for when you are awake, then?”  
  
“The boy was cold and alone,” Tezuka said. “In his old and dusty quarters, he stays day and night. No one knows of him and about him, and somehow, I feel that I have to know.”  
  
“Do you really?” the boy asks, looking up at Tezuka with golden eyes seeking something — hoping that Tezuka would be the one to give it. But tonight, Tezuka could not answer, for he was not a man who followed what he felt. He was a man who grew up following what was taught.  
  
Soon enough, it was time to leave. Wrapping up the now empty basket, Tezuka stood before the boy. “I must go.”  
  
The boy looked up at him with confused eyes, and Tezuka could not catch a single emotion from within them, for there were too many in too quick successions. Then, the boy nodded and stood to accompany him to the door. The room was slightly colder now, as if the night’s chill finally settled in.  
  
He stepped out of the once jeweled door.  
  
“…good night, Tezuka,” the boy silently bid him.  
  
Tezuka stood there, facing away from this person that evoked feelings within him he could not explain. He frowned. He could feel a compulsion to stay, to not leave, to stay here forever — but no, he could not.  
  
Reaching into his pocket, he took out a big red cloth he used for handling older and more sensitive books he could not handle with his bare hands, and handed it to the boy.  
  
“If you need anything,” Tezuka began, “if you need me to come to you, tie this around the porch’s pillar where I can see it from the Monastery. I shall come.”  
  
With that, Tezuka spun on his heel and headed for the Monasteries. But before he could walk past the turn, a weak and hesitant voice called out behind him, “My name…”  
  
He stopped, turning partway.  
  
“…my name… is Ryoma.”  
  
The voice broke at the end, as if the boy was not certain of his own name. But Tezuka turned and gave him a small smile.  
  
“Good night, Ryoma.”

 

~

 

“Good morning, Tezuka!” chirped a perfectly chipper voice from somewhere above him.  
  
Blearily blinking, he lightly groaned. “What time is it?”  
  
“Almost nine~,” sang the happy voice. “We’ll be late in a few minutes~.”  
  
“And you are happy about that,” he grunted as he sat up from bed, still fully clothed from the previous night. Golden eyes and a beautiful smile flashed into his consciousness, and he had to shake his head slightly to keep alert and awake.  
  
“Oh, it’s a good day,” smiled Fuji.  
  
“And why, pray tell, is it a good day?” Tezuka sighed, quickly walking through a shortened version of his morning routine.  
  
Fuji was a childhood friend, and one of the few within Tezuka’s circle. All of them were grafted from different regions of the kingdom for their power and brought to the Monasteries when they were no more than nine or ten, except for Fuji and Taka.  
  
Fuji was special. He came from a noble line of mages that were granted special powers — the entire clan was notorious, however, for being sadomasochists. Taka, back then, was working with his father, who was the chief cook in the clan’s manor. After having shown magical potential, Taka was also grafted, much to the pride of his parents.  
  
But that was another story for another time.  
  
“Well, good days typically start with surprises,” Fuji explained as Tezuka straightened out his robes and collected his books and journal. “And my first surprise of the day came when I saw _the_ Tezuka Kunimitsu walking back _into_ the Monasteries _very_ early in the morning with a _smile_ on his face!”  
  
Tezuka’s hands stilled.  
  
“And _then_ I walk into his room later that morning, only to find him sleeping in with full robes on! I mean, can a day get better?” Fuji finished with a flourish. He then stepped forward, shoved his face up to Tezuka’s, and blithely chirped, “Can it?”  
  
Fuji merely received a frown.  
  
The brown-haired mage laughed, twirling away from Tezuka, agile and graceful as a floating wraith. “Worry not, Tezuka~! It’s not as if we mages are bound by vows of celibacy, unlike the priests. I will not tell a soul.” Fuji stopped by the door and sent a rare and fleetingly honest smile at Tezuka, one that was so fundamentally different from his farce smiles, one that only a handful of people have seen. “I am actually happy that you are reaching out, Tezuka. Heaven knows you are too lonely.”  
  
Faintly lowering his head in acknowledgement, Tezuka sighed. He knew he was lonely. He suffered because he was lonely. But what could he do? There was no one out there who would send the loneliness away. Was there?  
  
 _A smile, golden eyes. “You came.”_  
  
There was a faint twinge within his chest that Tezuka could not ignore. If it was magic, he did not know for certain.  
  
“But,” Fuji continued, walking out the door. Tezuka briskly followed, closing his quarters and making sure they were locked. “If I were you, I’d keep to the night visits. And try returning earlier. You want neither Eiji nor Momo seeing you out at night.” He giggled. “I cannot wait to meet the lovely young man!”  
  
Tezuka was far too busy inwardly dreading the horror of having Eiji or Momo finding out about the matter at hand that he only realized Fuji had said ‘young man’ instead of ‘young lady’ when they were already in the lecture halls, seated and waiting for the Senior Mage to begin the day’s lesson.  
  
One thought plagued his mind for the rest of the morning.  
  
 _…am I that blatant?_  
  


~

  
The following night, Tezuka did not return. Nor did he the night after that. Ryoma did not even bother denying it; he was starting to miss the mage’s company. Tezuka was a mere mage, and Ryoma knew it was not good for someone of his station to become so besotted with a mere mage.  
  
But since when did he ever follow social rules?  
  
He cared neither for social stature nor for outward appearance. Should he appear as uncultured and unfit for the prefix that was attached to his name, he did not care. All he cared about was the mage that kept him company in the stifling quarters that had become his entire world for the past ten years.  
  
He walked up to the porch pillar and lifted the red cloth in his hands. Reaching over to tie it, he hesitated. Would it be too selfish of him to call the mage down just because he wanted company? He knew that mages were quite busy, especially someone as young as Tezuka. No doubt, Tezuka was of the Third Level mages — not quite mages in training, but not quite full-fledged mages either. They were somewhere within the transitional stage, and had half the duties of graduated mages.  
  
He bit his lip, moving back, his hands falling to his sides. The cloth hung limply in his left hand.  
  
Not knowing how long he stood there, he stared thoughtfully at the pillar. Soon, the night’s chill began settling into his quarters. The fireflies were out once more, and the beautiful cherry blossoms swayed in the night’s gentle breeze.  
  
“Why do you hesitate?”  
  
Ryoma started and whirled around, finding himself facing the object of his thoughts. “Tezuka…”  
  
The mage lifted a light blanket from the nearby divan and moved forward, draping it around Ryoma’s shoulders. “I could see you from my windows. Why do you hesitate? I did tell you I would come.”  
  
Ryoma cast his eyes down, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “…there was no particular reason for me to call you down.”  
  
“You wanted company,” Tezuka said, and the boy nodded silently. “Then is that not reason enough?”  
  
Ryoma’s eyes darted up to meet Tezuka’s.  
  
“I am sorry I was not able to come sooner,” the mage apologized silently, taking Ryoma’s hand and leading him to the gardens. Ryoma followed, eyes trailed upon their intertwined fingers. “There were several matters I had to attend to.”  
  
“It is fine,” Ryoma said, a slow smile blooming upon his face.  
  
As they sat passing time under the cherry blossom tree, the magic played. All around them were sparkles of power, here and there were heady swirls of misty magic. The breeze was pleasant, and the moon smiled down at them.  
  
“We might take life for granted, but from time to time, there are beautiful nights like these,” Tezuka silently said, calling Ryoma’s attention. “They make us realize just how much we’ve been given. Am I wrong?”  
  
Ryoma regarded him with a steady stare, recalling their first meeting. And then he smiled. “No, perhaps you aren’t.”  
  
There was silence once more as Ryoma’s fingers tightened around Tezuka’s.  
  
“Will you be coming tomorrow night?”  
  
 _Will you stay with me?_  
  
“If you wish me to.”


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "[Magnolia](http://www.divshare.com/download/4467396-91a)" from the OST of the movie Shindou.

Ryoma’s garden was something of a puzzle. The sheer size of it was overwhelming for a start. What he had taken first to be the border of the garden — the hedge of yew on the other side of the formal beds — was only a kind of inner wall that divided one part of the garden from another. And the garden was full of such divisions. There were hedges of hawthorn and privet and copper beech, stone walls covered with ivy, winter clematis and the bare, scrambling stems of rambling roses, and fences, neatly paneled or woven in willow.  
  
He would love to know every single corner of the garden by his heart, but he knew that was too much to hope for. Even Ryoma, who has inhabited the place for something close to a decade, tended to get lost. Magic was useless as well, for the garden seemed to exude its own essence that interfered with any such form of magic. It was as if the garden _wanted_ them to be lost within its confines.  
  
However, in spite of his hesitation to wander too much in fear of getting lost, he loved this garden. He loved this garden, for this garden held precious memories.  
  
“Where do you want to sit tonight?” Ryoma asked happily, intertwining their fingers and tugging him outside.  
  
“Wherever you want,” he replied in kind. Having brought another basket of food evidently made Ryoma happy enough to ask him for his preference. On normal nights, Ryoma would not even bother asking. He had asked Ryoma about food and if he was appropriately provided with it; the boy had confirmed that he was, and that had partly abated his worry. However, from time to time, he could not resist the urge to bring a basket with him.  
  
He knew that Ryoma would not lie, but the boy had the tendency to hide things—things that would, at times, be better out in the open. But of course he also knew that Ryoma had good reason. _Had_ to have good reason. Otherwise, he would not keep on doggedly resisting Tezuka’s subtle queries with his own subtle rebuffs.  
  
As they settled under an alcove made by hawthorns and clematis, Ryoma pointed up at the sky.  
  
“Look. It is a full moon.”  
  
Tezuka nodded, laying out the food for Ryoma. The boy had an insatiable appetite, but he never did ask for more even when the food ran out. He never did complain when Tezuka could not manage to bring food. Tezuka liked to think that his company was enough.  
  
And indeed it was.  
  
“What did you do today, Tezuka?”  
  
“My usual duties,” Tezuka replied silently as Ryoma dug into the muffins. “It was not my turn for this month’s full moon rituals in the Monasteries.”  
  
“Has anybody else besides Fuji noticed your… _nightly escapades_?” Ryoma smirked. Tezuka had revealed the matter about Fuji’s knowledge when he had told Ryoma that he would only be able to come at nights. However, he made the mistake of using the words ‘nightly escapades’, and ever since, Ryoma had not ceased his teasing.  
  
Tezuka resisted the urge to cast his eyes skyward and settled for a sigh. “Do not worry; I shall not be careless. If you wish to remain within these quarters, then you shall.”  
  
Ryoma smiled up at him, but somehow, the light within those golden eyes were different.  
  
Comfortable silence settled between them, and Tezuka found himself sinking within it. This was one of the many things that kept him coming back every night he could for the past two months — the sheer comfort of simply being was one he could only feel when he was with Ryoma.  
  
“We never do talk about ourselves, do we?” Ryoma remarked silently, fiddling with a flower that was blooming by his ankle.  
  
“We will when we are ready to,” Tezuka assured him.  
  
Ryoma merely nodded. In truth, it was the younger boy who needed the time. Every time Ryoma would ask about Tezuka, the mage would answer truthfully and without hesitation. But every time Tezuka tried asking anything about Ryoma, the boy would deftly turn the conversation elsewhere. The skill with which Ryoma could shift the direction of a conversation was so uncannily impressive that Tezuka was tempted to think that the boy was something of a politician or a courtier.  
  
Tezuka hesitated, but after a moment gently added, “…if you want to ask about me, Ryoma, then go ahead.”  
  
Ryoma looked up at him, face blank, but eyes flickering within warring emotions and thoughts too fast for Tezuka too read. Truly, Ryoma was an enigma for him, one that he has yet to solve.  
  
“Then tell me about your birth.”  
  
“…my birth?” echoed the mage.  
  
“My father used to tell me that I embellished tales about my own birth and told it to whomever would lend an ear,” Ryoma said. Tezuka saw a flicker of wistfulness flit over the boy’s countenance. “You see, all children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind, and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth; it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.”  
  
The mage faintly stared at Ryoma for a heartbeat, and then turned his face up towards the moonlit sky. Starlight washed over their forms, bathing them in pale silvery blue light. From the neighboring cherry blossom trees were petals flitting down, entangled in a slow dance with the gentle breeze.  
  
Tezuka began. Weaving a tale was something he has not done for a long time, but for Ryoma, he would try once more. “The village would always remember that rainy day almost two decades ago, when Kiyoe and her husband Kouji came back from Luft, the central city. People would look back and remember the endlessness of the rain on the day the strong child was born. It was a difficult birth, for on the stroke of six, just as the baby was born, hadn’t the mother passed away, out of this world and into the next? So if the weather had been fine, and if the doctor had been earlier, and if the travel had not been rough…”  
  
Ryoma gently caressed the back of Tezuka's hand with his thumb, eyes focused on the mage. Full attention was given and taken.  
  
“And if, and if, and if. Such thinking is pointless. Kiyoe had died on that rainy night, and Kunimitsu was brought forth. Villagers would often say that it was a sacrifice for the birth of a strong child, but there always is a doubt,” Tezuka paused, eyes locking with Ryoma’s. He reached over and brushed a stray lock of hair away from those golden eyes. “Kunimitsu is a strong name granted only a strong child, a child that would become the beacon of light to guide the way. Such foolish beings humans can become in desperation. For could they have not acted on their own instead of seeking the guidance of a mere child?  
  
“But as it is, that is how it came to be. The child grew under the tutelage of his father, a righteous and smart man with a kind heart and a pair of gentle hands. The child grew to love and to be loved by many. Coveted by the village, however, it spelled trouble when the Monastery mages came. Refusing to give up the child, the argument turned into a fight, and the fight turned into a skirmish. In the end, overwhelmed by magic and the casualties, the village — or what remained of it — reluctantly gave up the child. It was then that the child lost sight of his purpose, for not only had his father and mentor died, but the very reason of his existence was giving him up.”  
  
Ryoma gently rested his head against Tezuka’s shoulder.  
  
“Is the child still lost?” he asked faintly.  
  
A tale weaved was a truth embellished. It was roundabout, but was their relationship not such as well? Silence once more settled between the two of them, and a feeling of warm contentment could not be repressed.  
  
“…the child has been wandering inside a never-ending maze,” Tezuka said, voice as low as a faint whisper of the wind. “But one day, he opens a door, and he sees golden firelight within the darkness. And suddenly, the maze is no longer a maze, but a garden. It is still confusing, as it should be, but there is beauty. And the child figures being lost is not that bad after all, for in the core of this confusion, he has found a treasure worth the while.”

 

~

 

It should not have been a surprise, Tezuka mused much later, when he had received the rumors of a section of the Monastery wards cracking. The Monastery wards were mysterious pillars of magic that supported the kingdom's wards. They were hellishly strong, and even the strongest mage could not compete. Perhaps if the clan that bore the endless strength were still alive, a mage would be able to. But ifs were pointless. The wards had cracked, and this was a big problem — not only for the Monastery, but for the entire kingdom collectively.  
  
He had confirmed with Fuji, Sanada, and Tachibana earlier — the three of them had apparently heard the words straight from Yukimura's lips. If anything, that was a huge guarantee of credibility; Yukimura Seiichi, Fuji's first clan cousin, was a magistrate-in-training for the Monastery, and as such was privy to information that would otherwise be for certain ears only.  
  
Sighing absently, he carded gentle fingers through a napping Ryoma's hair. The curious green tinge was ever-present; Tezuka smiled.  
  
“So mysterious,” Tezuka murmured into the soft hair. “Ryoma… each day I wonder and ponder, but you are one mystery I cannot seem to solve.” Fingers gently grazed an aristocratic jaw line. “But perhaps I do not need to.”  
  
Somewhere within himself, perhaps he had always known. The Monastery wards were crumbling because he had opened that old oak door. His heart was filling because he had opened that old oak door. A kingdom for a heart; it was an uneven trade. Tezuka, had he been his previous self, would without a shadow of a doubt exchange his own well-being for the kingdom. But he was not.  
  
He pressed a soft kiss to the boy's temple, lips lingering over warm pale skin. He sighed once more, looking back up at the moon. “I shall keep my promise, Ryoma. If you wish to stay within these quarters, then you shall. I will make a way…”  
  
Had he looked back down, he would have seen a single tear land upon faintly smiling lips.

 

~

 

Faintly, very faintly, Tezuka wondered if Eiji's statement held truth. Glancing over to his forever smiling companion, he sighed.  
  
 _Fuji is an omen of bad luck! A talisman that attracts negative energies!’_  
  
Indeed, he was.  
  
Tezuka was methodically shortening his work and sleeping hours in favor for researching the Monastery wards. So far, Ryoma's bookshelves were proving far more useful than the royal and court libraries, and he found this unnervingly odd. It was as if that room of Ryoma's was bent on giving him — _them_ — whatever they needed, whenever they needed.  
  
Ryoma began exuding very slight and almost invisible signs of anxiousness and stress ever since Tezuka had given the news of cracks in the Monastery wards. Had Tezuka been a normal person, he would not have noticed Ryoma's underlying strange behavior. But he was not a normal person; he was a mage. He could feel the subtle fluctuations of Ryoma's magic, the bursts of uncontrolled energy fueled by reservoirs of emotion.  
  
His theory was confirmed and now became truth before his eyes. The Monastery wards had cracked when he had opened the door, and Ryoma himself knew it.  
  
But he never questioned the boy, and the boy never questioned him.  
  
They spent their time as they normally would, with a few additions. Tezuka would arrive and bring Ryoma food, keep him company. They would talk each other into the night — topics were endless, boundless. And then Ryoma would yawn and tug Tezuka into his squishy couch, cocooning himself in warmth as he slept on the mage’s lap. Tezuka would resume his research, occasionally bringing books back to his room for further perusing after he would leave a bleary Ryoma in bed.  
  
Every early morning, he would place a soft kiss on the boy’s forehead, or on his temple, or on the crown of his head — something to bid the boy a deep sleep with pleasant dreams until they would meet again that night. Tezuka would then catch four to five hours of sleep, enough to go on for the day. Strangely enough, he felt energized. Sleeping less did not seem to bother him for as long as he could see and be with Ryoma.  
  
But right that moment, Tezuka was somehow tempted to think that he was hallucinating from severe lack of sleep. For what other explanation would be able to account for the King’s presence within the Monasteries, just when he had planned his attempt on mending the ward’s cracks? It was far too much for a coincidence, and there was the fact that coincidences did not exist in any reality.  
  
Frowning at a seemingly clueless Fuji, he heaved a sigh. He would have to put it off until later this afternoon, after the King left. There were no two ways about it; he would not – _could not_ – resist being detected.  
  
The ceremony to call blessings upon the King and the royal family went forth, and Tezuka diligently performed his tasks. His control of his magic seemingly improved over the past few weeks more than the norm, and he found unexpected ease in doing things that would have drained him before. He did not know if this was also in part of his meeting with Ryoma, but if it was, then he was thankful.  
  
The thought of Ryoma brought a faint smile upon his lips, and he could not help but be anxious for the smiling face once more.  
  
 _Just a few more hours…_  
  
Unbeknownst to the mage, sharp grey eyes were watching him.

 

~

  
  
“Yuushi,” he faintly murmured, shedding his outer robes and sinking into his couch.  
  
A faint sigh was the mage’s answer. “What is it this time, Keigo?”  
  
Keigo chose to ignore the exasperation within his friend’s tone and accepted the proffered glass of fine white wine. “Do you remember the name of that brown-haired mage earlier? The one with the glasses and frozen expression.”  
  
“Tezuka-kun,” Yuushi answered. “What of him?”  
  
“Tezuka, you say?”  
  
“A strong one from a remote but rather large village in the Northern provinces. He was drafted almost ten years ago.” Yuushi reclined against his own seat.  
  
“I feel Ryoma around him,” muttered Keigo, closing his eyes. His voice was a notch above a whisper, but it carried to Yuushi’s ears — these words were only for Yuushi’s ears. “I feel him, Yuushi. Somewhere, he is alive…”  
  
  
Eyes darkened.  
  
“Well. We will have to remedy that, will we not?” the mage said into the silent night, waving his hand back and forth before the crackling fire. The flames danced to his beat. “An unlucky fellow Tezuka-kun is. Having garnered your attention, he is in for quite a ride.”  
  
“You have it the other way around, my faithful friend.” Keigo’s lips curved into a smile. An elegant hand adorned with a blood red ruby ring lifed the wineglass for a sip. “He should be honored to hold the interest of the King.”


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "[Numen](http://www.divshare.com/download/4467395-c41)" from the soundtrack of the movie _Shindou_.

_“For the day is you_ __

_And the light is you_

_The sun is you_

_And the spring is you.”_

 

~

 

Gentle words spoken in soft tones lingered in the magic-ridden air as Ryoma shifted in the embrace. He looked up at the mage, a smile — that special smile — pulling at the edges of his lips. The book in his hands were weightless, the pages from which he had been reading yellowing in age.  
  
“More?” he asked silently.  
  
Tezuka chuckled. “That is quite enough.” The mage lifted his fingers and traced it over Ryoma’s eyebrow, brushing aside several strands of hair. “You have already exhausted the book.”  
  
A small hint of doubt crossed the golden eyes. “Are you sure? You were quite agitated when you arrived earlier. I could read more poems for you…”  
  
“I am fine now, Ryoma,” Tezuka insisted, leaning forward slightly and placing a soft kiss on the boy’s nose. The little nose crinkled as lips brushed over it. “Thank you.”  
  
Gently, Tezuka took the book from Ryoma’s hands and closed it, placing it upon the table. He then shifted Ryoma on his lap, his arms wrapping around the boy’s frame. There was a pause of silence, and the world paused with them. The magic, however, did not; for magic was eternal, and it never did end — neither in life, nor in death.  
  
Ryoma’s fingers curled into the soft cloth of Tezuka’s robes, communicating words unspoken. Six moons had already passed since they first met. Short and fleeting though it was, the time given was enough for them to establish a bond — a bond strong enough that it echoed even within their magic.  
  
Into the realm of dreams, their magic would draw them together. During the day, when Tezuka was at work and Ryoma was asleep, their magic would reach out. At night, when they spent their time together, the bond would strengthen and the magic would blend – blend in bright swirls of color, and they would breathe the same breath.  
  
“Kunimitsu?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
A hand settled over the mage’s chest. “I will be right beside you.” _No matter what you are facing, I will be right beside you._  
  
Tezuka leans down and places a soft kiss upon the boy’s forehead. “…I know.” _Thank you._

 

~

 

The first was on that night, the first of his many kisses Ryoma would crave. It was a subdued night, for Tezuka was agitated about something he would never know. Having already exhausted several books of poems in hopes that his voice would comfort Tezuka the way his mother’s voice comforted him when he was little, he was tired. But he did not mind. If it was for Tezuka, he did not mind.  
  
The warm embrace was even warmer that night, and it was as if the mage was afraid to let him go. Tezuka had been early, and they had spent time watching the gradually deepening dusk that seamlessly became the night. The stars were out, but they were not enough to light up the sky, for the moon was nowhere to be found.  
  
After having read poems to his mage, he stood and played the piano, urging the gentle melodies to help him soothe Tezuka’s worries. Perhaps it was something about his work, or perhaps it was something with his comrades he would sometimes speak quite fondly about — Ryoma really did not know.  
  
But he did not need to know.  
  
All he needed was the mage’s presence. All he needed was Tezuka. He did not need anything else.  
  
He made sure the notes were gentle on Tezuka’s ear, playing songs of old he had learned from his mother. However long it was ago, he still remembered the blissfully innocent days he spent with his family. And to him, it only seemed fitting that these precious notes were played for Tezuka’s ears.  
  
Tezuka came to him, kept him company. Tezuka comforted him, became his strength, his pillar of life. Tezuka became the very thing he lived for, and as each day passed, Ryoma found himself looking forward to the moment when the sun would fall below the horizon and the moon would rise to take its place — when the loneliness he had grown to covet would fade away and love would take its place.  
  
Arms gently came to wrap around him, but his fingers never stalled. “The song is beautiful.”  
  
“Isn’t it?” he smiled. “My mother would often sing it to me. Unfortunately, I no longer remember the words to the song.” His fingers paused over the keys, and he leaned to look at Tezuka. “Would you play for me, Kunimitsu?”  
  
Tezuka faintly smiled. “If you wish me to. But not tonight, Ryoma.”  
  
“Why?” the boy frowned. “Why do you need to leave so early? Did I do something wrong?”  
  
“No,” Tezuka was quick to ease the boy’s worries. “No, Ryoma, you did not. I just have something very important to attend to early tomorrow morning. Will you forgive me?”  
  
Never before. Never before had Tezuka shortened their time together for work. Never before had Tezuka returned to his quarters earlier than normal — the time they spent, after all, was beyond special.  
  
 _Something very important…? More important than —_  
  
Ryoma stood wordlessly, took Tezuka’s hand, and led him to the door. As if knowing the mage was to leave, the old oak door opened on its own accord, and the darkness of the night threatened to seep into the room. Tezuka stepped out into the hallway.  
  
“You will come back for me tomorrow?” Ryoma implored. _You have to come back for me. Please._  
  
“I will,” Tezuka immediately answered with naught but pure certainty. Leaning down, he drew Ryoma into a hug. Ryoma felt the tingle of magic as he stepped out of the room, but he chose to ignore it. “I will come back for you. Always. That is a promise.”  
  
Gently, Tezuka placed a hand behind Ryoma’s head and leaned forward. As soon as their lips were against each other, a flurry of power swirled about the two of them. Ryoma wound his arms around Tezuka’s neck, never wanting to let go. Fleeting as it was, the time they had spent with each other meant more than anything else for him. No longer could he imagine how life was before Tezuka; there was only now, and them.  
  
The mage gently released the boy, whispering, “Goodnight, Ryoma. Sleep well.” The boy refused to untangle his arms around the mage’s neck. One more kiss, Ryoma wanted one more kiss.  
  
  
But Tezuka was already gone into the night.  
  
 _Tomorrow. You have to come back tomorrow. You promised._

 

~

 

In the end, Tezuka failed to lull himself into sleep. He tossed restlessly in his bed all night, unable to drive away the heaviness resting within his chest, the anxiety gnawing away at his peace, like fire devouring delicate paper. Had he known it would be like this, he would never have left Ryoma behind. He would have stayed and whiled away the night listening to Ryoma’s voice, to the melodies the boy would play.  
  
Closing his eyes tightly, he felt his agitated magic call out for its other half. Though still incomplete, Tezuka could already see where the magical bond was taking them. Far stronger than a marital bond, the magic recognized two matched souls and started forging a soul bond without either of them having to spur it into a start.  
  
Lost within the confines of his mind, he barely noticed Fuji and Oishi fall into step beside him. “—zuka? Are you alright?”  
  
Tezuka gently shook his head. “Ah, sorry. I was spacing out.”  
  
“I noticed,” Fuji remarked with raised eyebrows.  
  
“You should get more sleep, Tezuka. Perhaps you could take naps through breaks? You seem stressed,” Oishi voiced his worry.  
  
“Maa, Oishi, anybody would be stressed under the same conditions,” Fuji smiled. “After all, it is not everyday that the King himself requests personal audience.”  
  
Tezuka minutely flinched at the mention of the day’s highlight. Being summoned by the King was an honor anybody would be more than glad to partake — anybody, that is, who has not done what Tezuka has.  
  
He could not be blamed. For how could things be any other way? Repairing the cracked wards was something Tezuka did not even need to think about before doing. There was no hesitation, no falter in his steps. He knew what he had to do, and he finished the job without flaw. That was his principle. After the ritual, the wards were perfect, as if there had been no crack at all.  
  
Had he not done so, Tezuka knew that Ryoma would now be gone. There would no longer be nights within their sanctuary, the old room with the grand piano and the dust-clogged shelves and the bed Ryoma would lay in. There would no longer be walks in the garden beside the fireflies and the cherry blossoms. There would no longer be red sashes tied around pillars in the patio. There would no longer be life. There would no longer be love.  
  
He had something to protect, thus, he did what he could to protect it.  
  
But of course, one must wonder why Tezuka does not want to see the King. If he had repaired the kingdom’s wards single-handedly without any outside help, then he was no doubt an asset to the Monastery — a strong and ideal mage. The King would want to honor him, recognize his skills, for the King himself had a proficient hand at magic.  
  
Tezuka knew this. By repairing the wards, Tezuka knew that he had not done wrong in the eyes of the King. However, Ryoma —  
  
“Tezuka Kunimitsu, Mage of the Monasteries,” a bespectacled young man welcomed him. Oshitari Yuushi — the First Royal Advisor. Behind him, both Fuji and Oishi bowed and left, having accompanied Tezuka up to the castle’s doors, which was as far as they were allowed to go. “The King awaits you in the Royal Libraries.”  
  
What is it that allows human beings to see through each other’s pretendings? For Tezuka understood quite clearly in that moment that Yuushi was quite anxious. Perhaps emotions have a smell or a taste, or perhaps it is the magic that warns.  
  
The silence swallowed footfalls, and muffled the opening and closing doors as the advisor led Tezuka through rooms and hallways. There was no magic behind the silence, however — it was the soft-furnishings that did it. Overstuffed sofas were piled with velvet and cushions; there were upholstered footstools, chaise loungues and armchairs; tapestries hung on the walls and were used as throws over upholstered furniture. Every floor was carpeted, every carpet overlaid with rugs.  
  
Just as blotting paper absorbs ink, so all this wool and velvet absorbed sound, with one difference: where blotting paper takes up only the excess, the fabric of the house seemed to suck in the very essence of the words the people spoke.  
  
Very fitting for the royal castle, Tezuka thought. No other place would have as much secrets — except, perhaps, the Monastery towers.  
  
Soon, Tezuka and Yuushi were stepping into the Royal Libraries, where only royalty and members of the royal council were allowed. Certain sections were closed off and reserved only for the eyes of the King. Rumors were that the very secret of the kingdom’s birth — an event no one else but the main royal family and the few special clans knew about in certainty — was inscribed on the walls of a certain room inside the very same library Tezuka was currently standing in.  
  
Tezuka’s first impression was of the room as a whole, and it struck him by the marked difference from the rest of the house. The other rooms were thick with the corpses of suffocated words; in the library, one could breathe. Instead of being shrouded in fabric, it was a wide chamber made of wood, roomy and with plenty of air supply. There were floorboards underfoot, shutters at the tall windows, and the walls were lined with solid oak shelves.  
  
It was a high room. On one side five arched windows reached from ceiling almost to floor; at their base window seats had been installed. Facing them were five similarly shaped mirrors, positioned to reflect the view and light from outside. The bookshelves extended from the walls and into the rooms, forming bays; in each recess an amber-shaded lamp was placed on a small table. At night, apart from the fire at the far end of the room, this was the only lighting, and it would create soft, warm pools of illumination at the edge of which rows of books would melt into darkness.  
  
“Mage Tezuka Kunimitsu,” an arrogant but nonetheless gentle drawl came from one of the window seats nearby. Tezuka turned to find himself gazing upon a young man no older than he was, with dark grey hair and commanding grey eyes reflecting the very making of a great king.  
  
Immediately falling to one knee, Tezuka bowed his head. “Your Majesty.”  
  
Behind him, Yuushi stood with arms crossed behind his back. Face devoid of any emotion, he made the very picture of the trustworthy advisor and right hand.  
  
“Generally, I dislike dishonest people,” the King sighed, eyes looking through the window. “Why say something that contradicts your real feelings? Why bow when you show no sign of surrender?” Turning his head, he finally regarded Tezuka with sharp eyes. “There is no need to bow before me. Rise. I know you are not a naturally dishonest person; do not make yourself so.”  
  
Having only heard rumors about the King, Tezuka did not really know what to expect. As he rose from his bow, his eyes met the King’s. Said King smirked faintly, and Tezuka could not help but be reminded of Ryoma.  
  
Something flickered within the King’s grey eyes. Tezuka watched as the young man before him turned back to the book he held within his hands. “Do you like to read, Tezuka?”  
  
Tezuka nodded. “Yes, I do.” And then, catching himself, Tezuka added, “Your Majesty.”  
  
Chuckling, the King closed the book and chose to ignore Tezuka’s slip in good humor. “Well, of course you would. You are a mage, after all. It is part of your duties. I imagine all mages like to read.”  
  
“I beg to differ, Your Majesty,” Tezuka wryly said. “I have a few people in mind who are terribly prejudiced against having to stay put and read even just half a decent book.”  
  
“Really now,” King Atobe drawled, elegantly raising an eyebrow. He gently replaced the book upon the table, and Tezuka could not help but catch the familiar title: _Tales of Change and Desperation_ — it was one of Ryoma’s favored books. “…once long ago, I knew a certain person who was prejudiced against books himself. That is, until I managed to wheedle him into reading — for I am quite aware that the young me would have been absolutely irresistible that time.”  
  
Yuushi suppressed a cough from behind Tezuka, and received a somewhat playful glare from the King.  
  
  
“And this person,” King Atobe continued after successfully silencing his advisor, “still had some interesting things to say even after I had made him admit into liking books and reading. I remember the words quite clearly. He had said that readers are fools.”  
  
Tezuka’s eye narrowed the fraction of a millimeter.  
  
“He said that readers are fools, that readers believe all writing is autobiographical. And so it is, but not in the way they think. And these words surprised me, for then this person was naught but a child. He had said that readers were foolish for believing everything the writer says.”  
  
A memory flashed into Tezuka’s consciousness.  
  
  
 _Ryoma leaned against his shoulder as they sat under the tree with firelight beside them as their reading light. The book was open upon the boy’s lap, but he was not reading from it. “Don’t you think readers are fools, Tezuka?”  
  
Interest piqued, Tezuka asked, “How so?”  
  
“Well, they all believe that everything a writer writes speaks about the writer himself. And it does, sure, but not always in the way people think.” Gently reaching for the mage’s hand, Ryoma asked, “Do you disagree?”  
  
Tezuka coiled their fingers together, watching Ryoma’s bared toes fiddle with a flower at his foot. “…not quite, no. In fact, I think that is how it always is in life.”  
  
“Really.”  
  
“Mm. We think things to be one way, but fail to see that it is actually not so. The world is full of illusions, and to live within it, we must either learn to avoid these illusions and accept reality, or we must learn how to live within an illusion of a life.”_  
  
  
“Interesting words,” Tezuka spoke softly, carefully. “But I do not think the reader can help it if he believes in the writer’s words. For is that not what makes a story real? The belief of a reader is what a writer aims for. It is a talent to be able to pull a person into the magical power of story.”  
  
“True, true,” King Atobe chuckled. “But Ryoma was never a gullible child from the beginning, no. He was always the hardest to convince into things. No, Yuushi?”  
  
Tezuka froze.  
  
Nodding, Yuushi said, “I do not think Ryoma would have believed in magic at all had there not been live demonstrations done in front of his very disbelieving eyes.”  
  
“Ryoma…” Tezuka began. “…is the name of this person?”  
  
“Yes,” the King nodded, eyes returning to gaze upon Tezuka. There was a weight behind those eyes now, a weight that Tezuka had either missed or was not there before. “Echizen Ryoma is the name of my childhood friend. Is the name familiar, Mage Tezuka? Perhaps you might know where we can find him?”

 

~

 

Anxiously, Ryoma waited for his mage’s return. He had forced himself into sleep, hoping that he would meet the mage within the realm of dreams, but when he woke within the misty plane of whiteness, he was alone. Consequently, he had forced himself into wakening, and since then his eyes had yet to catch a single blink of blissful sleep.  
  
But the boy could care less.  
  
He was waiting for his mage. His mage had promised. Promised —  
  
There was a knock on the door.  
  
Shooting up from the comfort of his bed and blankets, he did not bother to pull on his outer robes. His magic reached for the old oak door and opened it to reveal a tired yet faintly smiling Tezuka. He ran and wrapped his arms around the mage’s torso, clutching for dear life.  
  
“Ryoma,” Tezuka faintly chided. “You will catch a cold.”  
  
A muffled ‘ _I don’t care_ ’ came from where Ryoma’s face was buried against Tezuka’s day robes. It was early, just approaching dusk; Ryoma was glad. Gently, arms reciprocated and wrapped around him. He was led into the room, and the old oak door closed with a soft thud, the lock clicking into place by magic.  
  
He felt Tezuka shift, and a blanket was suddenly draped around his shoulders. His inner robe was only a sleeping robe; it was light and made of white silk, tied around at the waist. The thinness was intended for full comfort at night, but it was not made for everyday use without the outer robes, for though it was made of fine silk, it was quite delicate. Often in his childhood, Ryoma would be scolded for tearing his sleeping robes. Though it was dark, he was fond of sneaking about the house at nighttime. The day after, however, would be a day confined to bed with an awful cough and a running nose.  
  
“Were you lonely?” Tezuka muttered as he sat on the bed and gathered the boy into his lap. He pressed the first of the many kisses of that evening against a smooth forehead. “Forgive me.”  
  
Ryoma leaned up, curled an arm around Tezuka’s neck, and placed a soft kiss at the edge of the mage’s mouth. “Where were you?”  
  
“The King called for me today,” Tezuka said in honest.  
  
Ryoma’s eyes flickered. “The King?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“He had some questions to ask,” Tezuka explained. He drew a finger over Ryoma’s eyebrow, pushing away the worry etched there.  
  
“About the wards. About why you repaired them.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
Tezuka was noncommittal about the matter, and Ryoma found it strange. Strange and annoying. “Kunimitsu.”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“You know I generally dislike dishonest people,” Ryoma scowled.  
  
Something flashed behind Tezuka’s eyes — humor, surprise, a mixture of the two. The mage smiled down at him. “It is nothing to worry about, love.” Tezuka leaned forward to place butterfly kisses upon Ryoma’s eyebrow and temple, as if to comfort the boy.  
  
Ryoma sighed in resignation. He rested his forehead against Tezuka’s, looking the mage straight in the eyes. “Everything is fine?”  
  
“Everything is fine,” the mage repeated with conviction.  
  
Ryoma looked into those eyes he had grown to love, and found nothing but the truth. “…alright. If you say so.” He leaned forward for another kiss, and this time, he was well met. Lips pressed against his gently, lovingly. Hands held him close, flattening against his back. He could feel the heat of Tezuka’s hands through his silk robes as he pulled back for air and then dove in for more.  
  
Gently, he pushed Tezuka’s shoulder down, until they were reclined on the bed. He lifted his head and looked down at Tezuka.  
  
“Are we not going too fast?” Tezuka silently asked, arching upwards to place kisses on Ryoma’s bared neck. At times, on especially peaceful nights, they would touch and embrace, savoring the heat. But they never really went further than the stolen kisses and caresses.  
  
Tezuka shifted weight and rolled them over. Ryoma smiled up at him, that smile that would always unfailingly disarm the mage. Hands lifted to cup Tezuka’s face.  
  
“All I need is a promise, Kunimitsu. Promise me you will always be here for me.”  
  
“Always. I promise.”  
  
“Then it’s fine.” Under the fading sunset, Ryoma’s eyes danced happily with contentment and bliss. He once more smiled up at Tezuka, a smile of pure happiness. “I love you.”

.

.

.

_“…and he who gazes towards the stars will never again be quite alone.”_


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "[Vena](http://www.divshare.com/download/4467393-221)" from the soundtrack of the Japanese movie _Shindou_.

_“With you alone I spoke what no one can guess._

_On never-ending roads, you were my loneliness.”_

 

~

 

Gently, Ryoma flattened his palm against a bare chest. The pads of his fingers slid upon smooth skin. A smile made its way to his face when he felt steady breaths hitch ever so slightly. His cheek was resting against warm flesh, his head tucked snugly underneath Tezuka’s chin.  
  
This was where he was supposed to be.  
  
A hand caught his and brought it upon soft lips. “Sleep, Ryoma.”  
  
“Mm.” He felt Tezuka’s other hand slip into his hair, fingers tangling, kneading. Little sounds of pleasure rose from his throat.  
  
The hazy afterglow of pleasure remained hovering over the both of them. Dim moonlight slithered into the room from where some of the curtains were slightly parted, casting silvery blue beams upon bookshelves and couches. Magic blanketed the air, but there was none of the characteristic heaviness – only a heady sleep-inducing lull, one that would immediately put anyone to calm.  
  
Underneath the blankets they were naked, but Ryoma did not feel cold, not one bit. Tezuka was more than enough to keep him warm; the blankets were more than enough to amply cover them. The hands that were tangled in his hair gently made its way down his neck, and he arched into it. Without pause, the hand slid down his naked back, and he sighed in pure bliss.  
  
“’Mitsu?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“You will keep coming for me, won’t you?” Ryoma whispered into the night.  
  
Tezuka pulled the smaller body closer. “Of course. You know I will.”  
  
“No matter what happens?”  
  
“No matter what happens,” Tezuka assured. “Don’t worry, Ryoma. Everything will be fine. I will always come back for you.”  
  
Ryoma was silent. He knew that Tezuka was aware of his anxiety, about the wards, and the King. No doubt Tezuka already knew of his connection with the King — or at least, the vital parts of it. The mage was obviously being careful about the matter. Ryoma was thankful of this, for unpleasant memories threatened to surface with his past. Some things were better left in the dark until they were both ready to discuss them.  
  
“My mother said the same thing,” Ryoma said. “She promised she would come back for me, and father would be with her. But years… I have been locked inside this room for years. It _has_ to have been years. Waiting for them. They never came.”  
  
Carefully choosing his words, Tezuka replied, “Can you not go out and search for them? Perhaps something is preventing them from coming back to you.” There was a certain tone within the mage’s voice that suggested withheld knowledge, but Ryoma did not pry. For now, he did not feel up to asking — and he was not sure if he felt up to knowing either.  
  
“If I could, I would,” Ryoma murmured. He shifted slightly, his toes running up against Tezuka’s bare ankle. “If I could have, I would have already done so. Long ago.” The warmth and the magic were both lulling him to sleep. He simply wanted to forget. Tonight was perhaps the happiest of his life — he did not want to sully it with the sadness that accompanied far old memories tucked safely within the deeper recesses of his mind. Tezuka was here, and that was all that mattered.  
  
“If you would only let me know how to help you…” the mage sighed.  
  
But his plea fell on deaf ears, for Ryoma was already asleep.

 

~

 

Tezuka awoke to a soft melody washing through his consciousness. The notes were born and became calm waves. A certain gentleness was woven in between the phrases, and he could feel warmth drawn forth from within his chest. He could see in his mind’s eye the shimmer of rippling water against a warm, gentle sunset. One ripple, and then another, and another — the cycle was never-ending. This song, he then knew, was a special song. What else could it be? The emotion it evoked from the listener was more than enough proof.  
  
He gently rose from bed, brushing his hair back from his eyes and reaching for his glasses. His eyes came upon Ryoma. The boy, clad in a simple silk robe, was on the piano, his nimble fingers bringing forth music Tezuka knew he would have eternally engraved within his mind. Ryoma’s golden eyes were closed, and his soft lips were curved into a gentle and somewhat wistful smile.  
  
Tezuka wonderered what story this melody held.  
  
Rising, he robed himself and padded towards Ryoma, wrapping his arms around the boy and placing his chin over a smaller shoulder. The fingers did not cease, only continuing to weave the gentle melody. “A beautiful song. What is it called?”  
  
Ryoma gently leaned his head against Tezuka’s. “It never quite had a name — to me, at least. I never did get to ask my mother for the title. When I realized I forgot, she was already gone for the war.” As the song closed with a gentle flick of elegant fingers, Ryoma looked up at him. “’Mitsu?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“Would you tell me what year we are in?”  
  
A curious question. “The forty-fifth year of Selene, three-hundred and forty-five years after the final unification of the Kingdom. Why do you ask?”  
  
Ryoma did not answer. Instead, the boy sank into deep thought. His eyes were looking inwards, as if searching for something, as if trying to see past the borderline of darkness shrouding his past. Tezuka paused to admire the boy’s features, the young slopes of the still maturing beauty his Ryoma possessed. Whenever Ryoma was pondering about things, a glaze came upon his golden eyes, giving it a somehow vacant, still quality. Tezuka was quite sure he would have scrambled to preserve the image had he been an artist.  
  
“Nearly ten years.” Tezuka barely caught the silent breath of words. “Nearly ten years, I was trapped within this dark room. And yet no one came for me. Why?”  
  
Ryoma’s words threw the mage into a sudden inner battle with himself. His conversation with the King lent light to several mysteries, but he was far from knowing the whole picture. He knew enough, though. And he wanted to tell Ryoma, but at the same time he hesitated. He wanted to be honest, but it was the very last of his intentions to hurt the boy.  
  
  
Before he could settle the inner struggle, however, Ryoma spoke, “Did you ever hear of the Echizen clan, ‘Mitsu?”  
  
Tezuka closed his eyes. Should he speak? Or should he not speak? Should he lie? No — that was unthinkable. Should he avoid? That was quite impossible. Ryoma would know; by now, Ryoma knew him inside and out. There was no lying between the two of them anymore.  
  
He uttered a small defeated sigh. “Of course. The lost clan possessing endless strength and magic, celebrated by the entire kingdom as direct descendants of the gods — if I am not mistaken, they are also a close branch of the first royal family.”  
  
A heart-wrenching pause settled upon the boy.  
  
“…lost?” Ryoma echoed. “What do you mean ‘lost’?”  
  
Tezuka’s expression tightened. “…the last of the Echizens were… reportedly killed during battle.”  
  
First it was a widening of golden eyes, and then there was a momentary pause. The pause was followed by a brief quiver of the boy’s lips, as if trying to utter a word, but could not quite bring it forth from the tip of his tongue. And then one drop.  
  
A tear.  
  
Perhaps he should have waited, he would think later. Perhaps he should not have revealed the truth, and instead skirted around the issue. Or perhaps he should have created a roundabout way of relaying the news, if only to cushion the boy against the shock. For no matter how much he tried to convince himself that Ryoma was but a year away from adulthood, he could not succeed. At that moment in time, he saw Ryoma as a fragile child — and his eyes were not deceiving him. There was only a brief pause after he had said those words when he felt something break within the boy. The separation, the sheer agony of it, echoed loudly within his very soul.  
  
He drew the boy up from the piano and onto the divan. He cradled Ryoma to his chest, enveloping him with warmth, trying his best to chase away the shadows clouding those precious golden eyes. The wetness he felt through his robe burned hotter than the hottest fire. There were probably no words to describe the pain racking through Ryoma’s entire being — similarly, there were no words to describe the pain echoing through their bond.

Outside, rain fell.

 

~

 

The day was dawning, and with it the castle came to life. It was but another ordinary day for the rest of the kingdom, but for the King, the very fate of the kingdom weighed upon this very day. There were important things to be done, and there was no one else trustworthy enough to set things in motion but the King himself. Some things that were better done personally instead of relying on missives and servants – this was one of those.  
  
“I shall trust you to take care of matters while I am away, Yuushi,” Keigo said, stepping into his sturdy traveling boots. “The trip will not take long.”  
  
“I understand,” Yuushi nodded. The royal mage handed Keigo his sword. “Be quick. I have a feeling we must hurry.”  
  
Eyes flickering towards Yuushi, Keigo pursed his lips. “A prophesy?”  
  
A shadow passed upon Yuushi’s face. “It does not bode well. You must hurry back.”  
  
“I will,” Keigo resolutely nodded. “It will not be a long trip. If I am not mistaken, they are currently staying at Rondnoir — a mere few hours’ travel from here.”  
  
“Should you use magic, it will take less,” Yuushi reminded him. “If ever there is a dire emergency, I shall use a Summon.”  
  
“Yes, that would be acceptable.” Keigo pulled on a dark cape, relatively inconspicuous, unlike his favored royal colors. There were only a few occasions he would shed the colors that stated his status, but covertness was a must today. “I want you to keep your eyes on the Monasteries. I fear they might have come upon something pertaining to the wards — Tezuka was quite adept at concealing his involvement, but those mages are quite sharp as well, especially that Yukimura.”  
  
Yuushi nodded in response as they strode through the doors. If everything went according to plan, no one would get hurt. If everything went according to plan, the entire issue would be resolved without further complications. Both of them knew that Yuushi’s prophesies were not ones to fail; nonetheless, they were willing to place a bet. If anything, Ryoma was a strong charm against bad omens.  
  
 _Wait for me_ , Ryoma, Keigo silently pledged. _I will bring home your mother and father, and we will come for you._

 

~

 

Tezuka was heavily reluctant to leave Ryoma alone that morning, but he had no choice. He could not afford suspicion upon himself – that would only prohibit him from visiting his Ryoma. Thus, he had to return to the Monasteries and religiously perform his duties as a mage, while Ryoma was left behind to wallow in his grief. It was not an arrangement he liked, but there was no other way.  
  
“I will be fine,” the boy had insisted. His tired and swollen eyes were downcast. “Go, ‘Mitsu.”  
  
And Tezuka believed not a single word the boy said.  
  
“I will be back as soon as I can, Ryoma,” he bid in parting, taking the boy into his arms and pressing a soft, comforting kiss upon quivering lips. “Sleep. You need it.”  
  
The boy gave a scant nod, sending him off with a small, shaky smile.  
  
  
Delaying his departure as much as he could, Tezuka left the West quarter as the sun was rising. It was a slightly overcast day, with a handful of grey clouds peeking in at the corners of the endless blue sky. It was a brisk morning, and Tezuka had to gather his slightly rumpled robes tighter around his frame to keep the chill at bay. He could have used magic, but he avoided, especially during mornings when he was returning from the quarter. Using magic would inevitably mean releasing the hold he had on his signature, and that would mean releasing a telltale pulse that would attract unnecessary attention.  
  
The last thing he wanted was for his ‘nightly escapades’ to be exposed.  
  
He hurried towards a side entrance into the Monasteries, by now a frequented passageway he trudged through every late evening and early morning. He struggled to keep within the shadows cast by the high walls of the Monastery, trying to outrun the reach of the sun’s rays.  
  
As far as his eyes could see and as far as his magic could scope, there was not a soul within the vicinity. And yet, there was an irksome prickling feeling at the back of his neck, as if eagle eyes were watching his every move. A burst of speed propelled his steps, his feet unconsciously hurrying towards the safety of his personal quarters. His instincts were prone to untimely warnings, but he was nonetheless thankful.  
  
Sudden as a gust of winter wind, a lash of hostile magic darted out from his left. His quick feet saved his arm by a sidestep; his shields instinctively shot up to protect him. Barking out the incantation for fire, he lit the entire length of the still and dark hallway. Shadows were chased from their nooks and corners, and for a moment, the prickling sensation vanished.  
  
 _“Bind.”_  
  
Faint as a whisper, the silent voice carried to Tezuka’s ears. He cried out as the ward magic constricted around him — he felt a rib give with a sickening crack. His magic lashed out in desperation, but all was in vain. His airway constricted, it was a matter of minutes before his consciousness faded into nothingness.  
  
The last thing he saw was a shadow lurking at the corner of his steadily darkening vision.  
  
 _Ryoma…_


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has three songs (in order): "[Days to Remember](http://www.divshare.com/download/4548657-c2e)" from the soundtrack of the anime _Rurouni Kenshin_ , "[Pain (Piano Ver.)](http://www.divshare.com/download/4548658-b6b)" from the soundtrack of the Japanese drama _Iryu_ , and "[Morning Moon](http://www.divshare.com/download/4548655-d65)" from the soundtrack of the anime _Tsubasa RESERVoir Chronicles_.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end.

— "Sonnets 60", Shakespeare

 

~

 

_The sky was endless and blue, a flock of birds and a bundle of clouds patches of white against it. He wanted to fly. Fly as high as a majestic eagle and see the land from up above. Sun against his back, wind under his wings, he would soar over the skies. Oh, if only, if only!  
  
“Ne, Ryoma.”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“They are searching for us.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Mother and auntie will be mad.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
A sigh.  
  
“Mm.”  
  
Life in the royal castle’s West quarter was a curious mix of frantic tension and laid back comfort. For Crown Prince Keigo and Prince Ryoma, it was not hard to let days slip by, to lose whole afternoons lying on their backs in the grass, feet submerged at the edge of a tranquil pool or stream in the vast gardens, watching clouds gather and part above them in fluid, serpentine shapes.  
  
Smart and magically gifted children they were, they often had no problems evading their governesses, who were subjected to a daily torturous game of hide and seek. They would run about, quick little legs carrying flailing bodies, weaving in and out of the hedgerow maze. And when the governesses — and the occasional maid or soldier asked to help out — were sufficiently lost, they would slip to their favored clearing and play.  
  
Of course, playing outside was only allowed after their lessons — in the morning history, arithmetic, science, and literature. They were yet to be introduced to combat, given their six- and eight-year-old bodies were far too young to be strained, whereas they were already taking magic lessons to occupy their early afternoons.  
  
Magic was a way of life for both of them, as it was for the rest of the kingdom. Neither needed teaching on how to command it. It was as natural as breathing, as innate as walking. Both took joy in their daily lessons, treating what normal Monastery trainees would label “advanced” as pastime play. A single day was never complete without the two of them lapsing into a noisy competition as to who was superior.  
  
“Ne, Keigo.”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“Don’t you think it’d be awesome if we could fly?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“I wish I was born an eagle.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Or a swallow.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“And you could be the Worm, my Prey.”  
  
“Mm.”_

_  
__Silence._

_  
__“Hah?!”_

 

~

 

_Ryoma clearly remembered his father. His father, the Echizen Prince. His father, the King’s right hand. His father, the best and strongest mage ever to set foot upon the Kingdom. His father, his mentor, his model — the center of his universe.  
  
Contrary to Keigo, who was his mother’s little boy, Ryoma kept to his father’s side. Stories of his insistence to accompany his father everywhere as a toddler were commonplace with the castle’s serving hands. Before he had started his daily lessons, he kept his father company in the study, patiently rifling through books despite his inability to understand the complicated paragraphs. Just by sitting with his father, soaking in the warm, welcome presence, he was beyond content.  
  
Nowadays the lessons prevented him from spending every single waking moment with his father, and his father’s duties prevented them from having more time together in the late afternoons and the evenings. Therefore, Ryoma savored the select days when he was given the privilege to step out of the West quarters and into the main palace where his father stayed as per High Counsel’s duty to the King. The West quarters were actually still within the same royal compound, separated only by a short stretch of woods, designed to keep the children safe, in private, and away from court. The Monasteries were near the West quarter, but they were never allowed near the tall, ominous towers.  
  
Today was one of those special days when he was allowed to go to court. He leveled his eyes and held his head high as he walked alongside his ever-elegant mother. One day he knew he too would be walking these grand corridors and commanding the attention of those reverent people. But that day would come when it did, and for now, all he was concerned about was his father and the time they would be able to spend with each other.  
  
“Make way for Her Royal Highness Princess Rinko and His Royal Highness Prince Ryoma!” cried the Lord Chamberlain, and the ranks of avid, envious people obediently parted to let him and his mother through. There appeared to be some sort of event — perhaps that was the reason why he was dressed so finely; he never really asked — but Ryoma could care less.  
  
Upon seeing his father beside the King and Keigo, Ryoma half-grinned. He dropped to a bow as they neared the throne, and beside her his mother curtsied. The King welcomed them with a warm smile, descending from the dais with Nanjiroh and Keigo. After exchanging greetings with the King, his mother joined with his aunt, Keigo’s mother, leaving him in the care of his father.  
  
He reached up and took hold of his father’s hand, safety and security settling his soul as the larger grip enveloped his smaller hand. The rest of the morning passed a blur, and his mind was full with the faces of people he was introduced to. He willed time to move faster, faster, faster! – so that it would soon be his time alone with his father. There really was nothing worse than waiting.  
  
Careful to rein in his annoyance, though, he kept a tight smile on his face. His young mind understood that in front of people, he was supposed to be good — but he also understood that being good and keeping “pretenses” (Keigo’s big word) was hard work. And it was a rule that hard work must be rewarded. As such, he persevered. The longer he held himself in check, the more right he had to demand extra time with his father.  
  
However, his impatience soon became apparent through his facial expression and body language. Sensing his agitation, his father took his hand once more, and with a polite smile, excused the both of them. Ryoma crooned in glee. Finally!  
  
“Are you hungry, little prince?” his father asked once they were out of the great hall. They were headed towards his father’s private study; Ryoma knew this route by heart.  
  
Ryoma nodded. “My feet hurt too.”  
  
“Well, we’ll need to ask your governess to get you a pair of comfortable shoes.” Nanjiroh asked one of the maids to bring them a light lunch with extra dessert for Ryoma in the adjoined sitting room. Ryoma sat beside his father on the couch. “How have you been, little prince? Are the studies treating you well?”  
  
“The studies are interesting, but history is very long,” Ryoma grumbled. “I was very bored.”  
  
“Ah. But you are enjoying your magic?”  
  
Ryoma nodded eagerly. “Yesterday I made mother’s old dead cherry blossom tree in the garden flower again!”  
  
Grinning, Nanjiroh ruffled Ryoma’s hair. He had received news about Ryoma’s unbelievable accomplishment the night before, and was just as surprised as the rest of the Inner Court. The cherry blossom in the West quarter’s private gardens was an old, cursed tree they were all wary to remove in fear of upsetting the earth magic — but Ryoma made it flower once more with a single touch, repelling whatever it was holding the healing earth magic away from the tree.  
  
The child was strong, that much was certain.  
  
“Next week, I will take you in a ride through the woods. I think you will like it, since you are attached to earth magic,” declared Nanjiroh. A reward was fitting for his proud child.  
  
“Can we take Keigo and Yuushi too?”  
  
“If they are allowed to go, then yes,” Nanjiroh acquiesced.  
  
Satisfied, Ryoma nodded. His father never lied to him — not once. There was no need to doubt. His eyes wandered around the familiar room and came to rest upon a flute in one of the glass cabinets by the wall.  
  
Nanjiroh followed Ryoma’s gaze and stood to retrieve the flute. “Would you play for your father, little prince?” Ryoma looked up at his father in surprise. “You have been learning. Your mother told me you even made a song of your own.” Nanjiroh handed him the flute. “Let me hear the song.”  
  
Ryoma received the flute, handling it with his small hands, gently, carefully. “It’s very short. And it’s not very good.”  
  
“Play, Ryoma.”  
  
The child hesitated, before lifting the flute to his lips. On no account was he to disobey his father, his mother told him. Disobedience would only earn him punishment, and punishment would mean seeing his father less. He did not want that.  
  
He took a deep breath, and played.  
  
The first notes were uncertain, wavering with his breath, but he willed himself, and gained confidence. The simple notes came, one by one, and soon the melody was flowing smoothly through his fingers. The light breeze, as if attracted by the sound, blew into the room, lifting the melody and carrying it with the wind. A single cherry blossom petal wandered through the open window, and swayed with the magic under the music’s command.  
  
Melancholy was the word his mother used when Ryoma first played for her the song. In reality, Ryoma had no idea of how he brought forth the simple melody — his fingers, he told his mother, simply moved on their own, much like how they were prone to do on the piano. Perhaps it was the magic, Ryoma mused. Magic, after all, was much unknown.  
  
“A beautiful song,” Nanjiroh grinned when Ryoma finished. Ryoma flushed in delight. “Do you have a name for it yet?”  
  
“No…” Ryoma looked down at the flute. “Mother said it was ‘melancholic’. What does that mean?”  
  
“She is saying your song makes her feel a gentle sadness,” Nanjiroh explained, knowing Ryoma would catch the gist. The child was sharp. “And I agree. Your song certainly does remind one of old memories. Maybe you should try transcribing the song on the piano. And when you finish the song, you can play it for me and your mother.”  
  
Ryoma nodded, giving his father a brilliant grin. He opened his mouth and was about to say something, when a maid bowed into the room.  
  
“Your lunch is ready, sire.”  
  
Ryoma made to give the flute back to his father, but Nanjiroh placed the flute back in the small hands. “This is yours now, Ryoma. I’m giving it to you.” Ryoma’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise, making Nanjiroh grin. “Come on, little prince. We shouldn’t make the food wait.”_

 

~

 

 _There followed five days filled mostly with feasting and merriment around the castle — and for Ryoma, it was time to spend with his father. Though the guests prevented Ryoma from keeping with his father all day long, he was unperturbed. His father woke him in the mornings, and they would break their fast together. Then they would go for a walk around the gardens, and after a while his father would leave him to his mother. And then his father would come back for lunch, with Keigo and Yuushi and the King and the Queen. The afternoons were again spent with his father, until late night when sleep overtook him and his father tucked him into bed.  
  
But happy days were bound to end, and end they did. A distraught Ryoma bid his father goodbye, sulked through the short ride home, and promptly locked himself up in his chambers upon arrival at the West quarter. On top of having to leave his father, he was forced to leave without Keigo. The Crown Prince’s presence was still needed in the Palace, a lively, festive place always bursting at the seams with people. The West quarter was just far too quiet in comparison.  
  
The following days were filled with gloom, and though they smoothly reverted back to the old routine, somehow Ryoma felt something was not right. Even at age six, he was able to sense things by feeling the magic surrounding him—and right now, he did not like what he felt.  
  
But no matter where he looked, everything seemed normal. The maids were laughing and cajoling; his governess was chatting amiably with the seamstress over tea and cookies; his mother was tending to the flowers… everything was normal.  
  
_ Too _normal.  
  
Sighing, he returned to his music sheets and laid his hands over the keys. He was working hard to come up to his promise — he would transcribe the nameless flute song he had created onto the piano, and he would play it perfectly to his father. His music teacher was delighted upon seeing his incentive and offered to help — Ryoma rarely ever put more effort than necessary unless rewarded with something worthy and of equal value — but Ryoma refused, wanting to finish the piece of music on his own. It would be his gift to his father.  
  
However, he was unable to concentrate. The magic surrounding him — it was heavy. Like air inside a sealed room. It felt unpleasant against his skin, and the occasional cold tingle made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The trees rustled against the wind, restless, as if warning him of some impending thing — what, he did not know.  
  
Over the next few dragging days, he could barely control his own magic like he was strictly trained to do, what with nature’s insistent distractions. Yet he persevered, bearing through nature’s omen. His mother, showing no signs of noticing such said omens despite having notable magical abilities herself, left for court a week after they had returned to attend a private banquet of the Queen. He had forced himself out of bed in order to give his mother a proper sendoff, but collapsed back in as soon as the carriage was out of sight.  
  
For the rest of the week, he was miserable. He dreaded the headaches lasting into the weekends, until a blissful Saturday night four days after his mother’s departure, when the weighing feeling settled upon his consciousness vanished into thin air.  
  
Perplexed but nonetheless overjoyed, he slipped out of bed and decided to have a few minutes of fresh air. The servants, in fear of the Prince catching anything contagious in his weakened state, sealed off the entire room despite his aversion to closed quarters. He rather loved the gardens and the fresh breeze alive with magic.  
  
Pushing the glass doors leading to the terrace that opened to his personal hedgerow garden, he grinned with delight. The moon, in all its crescent glory, provided little lighting, but with a few well-chosen words, the garden lit up with floating balls of multi-colored warm fire.  
  
In his little paradise, he strolled, savoring the pure earth magic.  
  
Until, of course, the magic alerted him of a presence behind his back.  
  
“Who is it?” he turned and said.  
  
A cloaked figure — Ryoma recognized the seal of the Monasteries — approached from within the darkness of the night, and knelt before him. “Your Royal Highness, I come bearing news from the Monastery and the Court.”  
  
“What is it?” Ryoma was apprehensive. Why was it so quiet? How did this man get into the quarters and past his governess, herself an accomplished mage?  
  
“The Court, your Highness, is currently under siege. We have come to ensure your safety.”  
  
“Siege?” echoed Ryoma in incredulity. “Siege? B-But… my father?”  
  
“His Royal Highness Prince Nanjiroh rode into battle a week ago, your Highness. Thereafter, Her Highness Princess Rinko followed in order to lend her healing abilities to those injured in the war,” the cloaked messenger relayed. “Your Highness was not informed in order to prevent Your Highness’ further involvement and possible subsequent endangerment.”  
  
“But how — the Palace… Keigo? The King and Queen? Where are they? Are they alright?” he drilled the messenger.  
  
Said messenger shifted listlessly, before answering, “I am most regretful to inform Your Highness that His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen have both been killed during Court’s siege. Currently, the Monastery mages are pushing back the enemy front. His Majesty the Crown Prince remains alive and physically unharmed.”  
  
Ryoma opened his mouth, but could not bring forth the words he wanted to say. His father was at war? His mother too? Why didn’t they tell him? He was never informed of any of this. And the King his uncle, the Queen his aunt — dead?  
  
“We have also found the Kingdom’s wards partly cracked and continuously weakening under the neighboring Empire’s onslaught,” the messenger continued as he remained silent. “Your Highness…” the messenger braced himself, and continued, “The Monasteries ask for your help.”  
  
Ryoma did not know much about the Kingdom’s wards. He had yet to take lessons in advanced ward magic. All he knew was that the wards acted as shields and protected the Kingdom from massive magical attacks. “My help? But I don’t know anything about the wards! I can’t help them!”  
  
The messenger shifted again. “Quite the contrary, Your Highness. If I may be so bold — you are yet unaware of a huge amount of latent magic you possess, being the strongest heir of the Echizen clan.” As if catching himself, the messenger reverted to his formal address. “The Monastery simply asks Your Highness to provide enough magic to support and strengthen the wards against the Empire.”  
  
Ryoma, skeptical, remained silent.  
  
Sensing his hesitancy, the messenger continued, “As soon as the wards’ cracks are mended and it is reaffirmed, the burden of protecting the bordering cities will be lifted from the army’s shoulders. They will be able to refocus their attention, and this war will end much faster. The sooner the war is finished, Your Highness, the sooner your parents return for you.”  
  
Ryoma’s breath hitched. His emotions were a jumble. He was upset; they did not have to keep him the dark! He was afraid; what would happen now? He was worried; were his parents alright? He was confused; he knew nothing about what was happening beyond the West quarter’s walls, being the child he was. However, the notion of the war ending early was certainly a welcome thought, and if he could do anything to pull that day closer, then he would — if only to see his mother and father again. “B-But… how do I do that? I don’t know anything about ward magic!”  
  
“There is no need for Your Highness to know,” the messenger assured him in a deep, rolling voice. The cloaked head lifted, and Ryoma’s eyes met sharp dark eyes glinting under the moon’s shadow. “We only ask of Your Highness to remain within his rooms. We shall place a seal upon the room, a seal that will take a small part of Your Highness’ magic to support the wards. However, Your Highness must not step outside the chambers.”  
  
Ryoma bit his lip. It certainly did not sound too difficult. Only… “Is it possible to include the gardens within the seal? I… I cannot stay within the chambers all day.”  
  
“Of course,” the messenger smoothly answered. The messenger looked him in the eye. “Will Your Highness lend us a hand?”  
  
A pause. Ryoma hesitated. Around him, agitated balls of rainbow fire shuddered and stuttered in the darkness, illuminating only patches of the garden, painting an eerie picture. The cloaked messenger’s presence was muted, yet at the same time sharp. Should Ryoma trust this person?  
  
But as he thought of his father going into war, and his mother toiling long hours in an infirmary tent, his heart clenched in pain. He could never leave this be!  
  
He steeled his resolve.  
  
“I will.”_ __

~

 

 _The rest of the night, he did not remember all too clearly. He did recall the messenger informing him that a cleansing ritual was in order before the seal could be placed and his magic could be borrowed. The following morning, he woke to find himself in a small modest bed that paled in comparison to his luxurious cushion-piled circular bed. He was inside a room with a single small window, a small desk that had several books atop it, and a plain door most probably leading to a bath chamber.  
  
“Good morning, Your Highness.” Ryoma turned to find the same cloaked messenger by the bigger door — the entrance — watching him attentively.  
  
“G-Good morning.”  
  
“We will have to ask you to stay within this room until we finish preparing the ritual for your cleansing, Your Highness. It is imperative that you do not leave these quarters — these walls are made with Earthlust Stone, and effectively block your presence from anyone outside. As long as you stay within the room, the Empire’s assassins will be unable to find you. The longer you stay, the easier the cleansing will be, as well, for the stones keep your magic in and condense it.”  
  
“I understand.” Ryoma nodded, resolute. He forced his voice not to waver, not to reflect his uncertainty. It would not do to show weakness – he was of high station, and things were expected of someone his caliber. So his father always said.  
  
From then on, Ryoma stayed within the room. Day after day passed. He was not certain how much time it was since he was made to stay, only that he knew it had to be at least a week, maybe even two. He tired more easily, and slept more too — his days and nights were now wonderfully confused. Perhaps it was the dense magic in the air that made his eyes want to droop faster, made his breathing go deeper. Yes, perhaps that was it.  
  
He often dreamed, for he was longer in sleep than in waking. He dreamed most of his father and the time they spent together reading, playing chess, or riding. He dreamed too of his mother, who would always teach archery, or the proper ways to tend to a garden. He dreamed of Keigo and their daily lessons and bantering, their games of hide and seek, their little abandoned clearing. During the short time he spent in waking, he wondered if Keigo ever wondered where he was.  
  
After countless days spent reading books in between long, deep naps, the cloaked messenger finally came back. He dressed quickly and arranged himself, following after the messenger through the darkened hallways, out through a garden pathway, and into the woods. They broke through the short stretch and emerged near the West quarters, a familiar, calming place. The breath of fresh air was invigorating to Ryoma, and the earth’s essence melded deeper with his magic.  
  
They silently walked through the quarter’s empty hallways, passing eerily silent rooms and empty gardens. Perhaps the serving hands were temporarily dismissed for their own safety? He had yet to see his governess since that night.  
  
Soon, the messenger ushered Ryoma into his personal chambers, neat and immaculate. The bookshelves were freshly dusted, the bed sheets recently changed. The glass doors leading to the gardens were closed, and over them were heavy draperies blocking out the light.  
  
He was instructed to stay inside the room and not to leave until the messenger came back, and as usual, he obeyed. Obedience was a virtue, his mother told him.  
  
His mother. His father. What were they doing now, he wondered?  
  
He sat idly on the divan, looking around his lonely, empty room. If it was a normal day, around this time would be lunch. Right after lunch, he and Keigo would let their bellies settle before lapsing into their afternoon magic lessons. His mother would be watching over them with expert eyes, and the old mage who was their teacher would be giving them explicit instructions on what to d —  
  
“Aaargh!” he cried out.  
  
_ The pain. _  
  
He doubled over, breaking out in sweat within less than a minute. His head throbbed, his muscles burned. His eyes burst in a rainbow of lights. He could no longer find his voice, could no longer call for help.  
  
_ White-hot, burning, knifing pain. _  
  
Constricting, binding, suffocating — cannot breathe —  
  
_ What is this?! _  
  
Faintly, very faintly, he could hear faint chanting in his ears. Words — he could not comprehend them, words spoken in the powerful ancient language. Chanting. A spell. A rite. Where they were coming from, he could not even be bothered with — he was already far too occupied with the pain, oh the pain--!  
  
_ Stop! Stop it! _  
  
Darkness._

 

~

 

Light.  
  
Firelight. Ryoma slowly opened his eyes. A dream… a dream of old stories and faded memories. Where were they now, he wondered? What were they doing? Did they still remember the little prince, their playmate, a boy named Ryoma? Keigo and Yuushi… the only two remaining of what was once his family. Torn apart by the Great War, rent to shreds by the Monasteries’ sinister plots.  
  
Closing his eyes once more, he remained still upon his bed. The room’s inherent earth magic provided him much-needed comfort. Betrayed by the Monasteries’ mages, trapped inside the darkness for ten years. At the beginning, the pain of the magic being torn away from him was so overwhelmingly unbearable it rendered him incapable of coherent thought. The only remaining sign of his sanity in the never-ending darkness he was cocooned within was his dreams.  
  
After a while, however, he had started remembering. The garden, the cloaked messenger, the siege, the King’s death, the Great War. How much of it was true? How well should he trust the words of the unknown messenger who served in the dark towers of the Monastery? He had puzzled, and puzzled. Time passed. How long it was, he hadn’t the faintest idea. Ten years was an estimate he came up with upon awakening, for in the infinite darkness, there was nothing but himself and his thoughts. His dreams were his sanctuary, within which he could retreat and relive precious old memories, as fleeting and hazy as they were at times.  
  
In the darkness, he had longed. He had longed for the bright sun, for the free wind. He had longed to feel damp grass under his feet, the way he loved it after a refreshing spring rain. He had longed for the thunder of the clouds during a storm, for the cold of the lashing rain against his face. He had longed to feel, to see, to smell, to taste, to hear, to _live_. He had longed, oh, how he had longed!  
  
But longing only made it more painful. There had been a constant tug at his magic, draining, pulling. Painful. His body was just barely able to keep replenishing, to keep providing enough. He had hoped against hope that his magic did indeed go to the Kingdom’s wards, fervently so. The thought, whenever it crossed his mind, had steeled him during the darkest of times.  
  
Even now, as he lay in his warm bed, he could not help but wonder why no one came for him. Surely someone noticed the lack of his presence? For years and years, while he was cramped within the darkness, he felt no one approach the West quarters. He felt not a single soul step within the old house. Was he forgotten? Had it been _that_ long ago? Surely not! Surely someone remembered…  
  
But if Keigo had remembered, then surely he would have returned. Ryoma knew, just knew deep in his heart, that Keigo would never, ever betray him. Nanjiroh and Rinko — Ryoma knew, though his heart refused to accept it, that the possibility of their death by the hands of Empire was high. But Keigo was the Crown Prince — no, the _King_. Surely he would be kept inside the Kingdom for his own safety… unless the King, Keigo’s father, had _not_ died?  
  
 _No. No, that cannot be._  
  
If Keigo’s father was alive, he would have been rescued much earlier.  
  
 _Unless they do not know I am trapped._  
  
Ryoma sighed. He did not know the extent of the Monasteries’ power, which only meant they could be as weak as worms, or as powerful as the gods themselves. He was, however, certain that they had done something. Altered memories, perhaps. Or produced an illusion.  
  
He had waited for Tezuka to reveal something — anything — regarding his meeting with the King. He wanted to know, he _needed_ to know — was there still a place for him out there? His parents—he forced his tears back, screwing his eyes shut. His parents were no longer among the living.  
  
 _But in the end ‘Mitsu did not tell me a single thing._  
  
He turned his head and his eyes fell upon his grand piano, sheets still open and scattered upon it. He would never be able to make true his promise to his father anymore.  
  
He sighed, and was about to rise, when he was blanketed by a sudden darkness.  
  
 _A vision?_  
  
The familiar contradictory sensation of dropping out of his own consciousness and being aware of it washed over his being. After a moment of darkness, cold touched his bare feet. He glanced down. Flagstone floor. He lifted his eyes, and in front of him was a dimly lit passageway.  
  
The vision was guiding him, he realized, as his feet moved towards the brighter light. The cold stung his skin, his bare feet lightly padding without noise. He neared the end of the passageway, touched the wall with a cold palm, and peered around the corner.  
  
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the witchlight’s bright glare, and a few more thundering heartbeats to comprehend the scene unfolding before his very eyes.  
  
But when his comprehension finally caught up with his vision, his stomach dropped to his feet.  
  
He screamed.  
  
"’MITSU!"


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has three songs (in order): "[I Talk to the Rain](http://www.divshare.com/download/4571639-9bc)" from the soundtrack of the anime _Tsubasa RESERVoir Chronicles_ , "[Once Upon A Time There Was You and Me](http://www.divshare.com/download/4519747-9c3)" from the same soundtrack, and "[Fatigue](http://www.divshare.com/download/4587335-7fc)" from the same soundtrack.

_My love, your face is all I know  
Of sunrises and sunsets.  
I touch you, and I touch the sun.  
Warmth and light, source of all life.  
I revolve around you.  
Planets collide in your absence,  
And the moon is my heart,  
Deep in shadow,  
With a dark veil over its face,  
Mourning the loss of mornings forever._

 

~

 

Screaming, Ryoma crumpled to the floor of his darkened room. The warmth of the firelight was gone, and all that was left was the cold and a darkness so profound he felt himself drowning within it. It was all too familiar a feeling, being encased by the darkness once again.  
  
Disoriented, he rested his cheek against the cold floor. His entire being was burning, burning painfully, and he could not comprehend — his mind was lost within the vision’s powerful grip. It wasn’t until his fingers brushed the hem of fabric hanging from the nearby couch did he wake. His eyes snapped open, wide and afraid. His heart pounded against his ear, loud, reverberating, erratic. His fingers shook, his arms and legs lifeless. Cold sweat promptly broke on his forehead.  
  
 _What…?_  
  
Hot tears trickled down his cheek, making his pale white skin flush an angry red. His hand caught the fabric once more and pulled at it — ah, yes, ‘Mitsu had forgotten his cloak. It must have been cold this morning, he thought absently —  
  
 _— ’MITSU!_  
  
Jerked awake by the sudden realization, magic rushed through his veins. The entire room burst into life, overflowing with agitated earth energy eager to help its young charge. With great difficulty, Ryoma clambered to his feet. His body, still under magical shock, refused to obey his orders without a valiant fight, but even hell would not stop him.  
  
  
He stumbled his way through his room, hitting his legs against the edges of his divan painfully.  
  
He had to hurry.  
  
 _Hurry!_  
  
He had to hurry.  
  
 _Or else —_  
  
Ryoma wrenched open the old oak door, uttering a harsh curse under his breath. A blast of frigid air slapped against his face.  
  
 _The outer world… can I? Should I?_  
  
A brief pause within which his eyes flickered between hesitation and fear lapsed, accompanied by utter silence. However, as if to bolster his determination, the vision’s pitch-dark window once more flashed in his mind, the very making of a nightmare — and the horrifying image of his ‘Mitsu, his mage, inside that abominable chamber, unconscious, tied down, screaming in pain —  
  
 _For ‘Mitsu… for ‘Mitsu, I can._  
  
Steeling his nerve, he pushed through the doorway and, without further hesitation, flew down the darkened hallways.  
  
A single choked sob, however, slipped from between his lips, echoing and lonely within the silent darkness.

 

~

 

Wavering in his disbelief, Nanjiroh peered at Keigo. The King, he thought dubiously — then only a spoiled little brat, now a proud young man who held the fate of the entire Kingdom in his hands. This was the King, and this King was currently shattering the foundation of the lives they’ve known for the past ten years.  
  
“Uncle, we must hurry,” pressed Keigo, keeping his voice low, but urgent. The modest dark clothing and voluminous cloak hid his identity well, but for some innately intuitive people, the guise could be too shallow. Before anybody had the chance to realize who he was, they had to get out of here. Cozy as it was, the small farming town was far too near the border, and the Empire was no less than five miles away. “Before the Monastery finds out and takes him, Uncle — Tezuka, Ryoma’s friend, has spoken outside of the West quarter’s walls. Someone else might have heard him during our conversation in the Libraries!”  
  
However, Nanjiroh merely gave him the same blank stare, shock having frozen him into a standstill. It was not all too hard for Keigo to comprehend the extent of Nanjiroh’s disbelief. After all, it was Nanjiroh who had found Ryoma’s corpse — _supposed_ corpse, he corrected himself — ten years ago. Throat slashed, arm broken, a large stab wound in the stomach. The heavy scent of the blood had been enough to make even Rinko, a battle-hardened and experienced medic mage, to retch.  
  
Rinko then burst into racking sobs. “Ryoma! Ryoma, my _child_ — alive!”  
  
Nanjiroh blinked, snapping into consciousness once more.  
  
“Uncle!” Keigo hissed in impatience. “There is no time for pointless dilly-dally! We _must_ hurr—“  
  
A burst of golden fire erupted in front of Keigo. The three of them, eyes wide, watched. The golden fire slowly calmed and molded itself into a fire lotus.  
  
“A Summon,” Nanjiroh exhaled.  
  
Without further ado, Keigo grabbed Nanjiroh’s arm and marched the three of them through the door, across the small vegetable garden, and into the neighboring stable. He threw open the side door, and there in front of him stood two magnificent steeds — Snowfire and Elléran. Keigo recognized them from his youth — they were of a rare magical breed, and lived for as long as their master was alive.  
  
“No time to waste. We leave. _Now_.”

 

~

 

Things never happened the same way twice. This was an established fact of the universe, for time was ever flowing, and no two moments were ever the same. Ryoma knew this, and he was thankful — for if things were never the same twice, then things would not go as his dream went. Nature was on his side tonight — the moon was full, and the earth thrummed with latent energy. The trees rustled side to side, anxious. The air whipped past his bare feet as he almost literally flew through the labyrinthine passageways, weaving in and out, letting the magic lead him.  
  
 _Lead me. Lead me, to where Kunimitsu is!_  
  
Never before has the magic ever failed him. And never will the magic fail him in days to come. This he knew for certain.  
  
He sharply turned a corner, eagle-sharp eyes catching the silhouette of assassin mages poorly hidden within the night’s sparse shadows. Chanting reached his ears —  
  
 _Oh, no, you don’t._  
  
“Kriae!”  
  
The one powerful word sent a lethal lash of magic towards the mages — he flew past them, and could not help but let a bloodthirsty grin curl upon his lips at the sound of them crumpling to the flagstone floor. They took his Mitsu, his mage, his _life_ — it would only be fair if _he_ took _their_ lives as well.  
  
Tonight, he was merciless, for tonight would be the end of all.  
  
As he ran, he pulled strength from the earth and the wind, gathering the magic around himself, condensing it until a shimmering film of raw earth magic outlined his form, effectively shielding himself from detection and magical assault. His breath rushed in and out of his lungs, saturating every fiber of his being with tendrils of warm, molten magic. His feet were cushioned from the rough stone by the silk of power shimmering over his skin. Truly, he was the epitome of nature’s power.  
  
He stopped when he came upon a small antechamber, circular and wide enough for full moon rites. He stopped in his tracks, eyeing the heavily decorated floor. The darkness made it hard to see in precise definition, but there were lines on the floor, calling on some potent magic, giving the room a very unpleasant atmosphere.  
  
His eyes flashed a sharp gold as he gathered the light of the moon around his hand, plunging the antechamber in momentary darkness before bathing it in bright white witchlight.  
  
 _Earthlust stone coupled with ancient circles…_ Ryoma warily eyed the unwanted but nonetheless beautifully intricate decoration on the floor. _The person who witlessly sets a single foot within this web of circles should be a very unlucky person. I wonder what would happen…_  
  
“It depends on which rune they step on,” a silky voice from the left wall made Ryoma jump and bristle in alarm. His eyes could see no one else. “They could burn, be torn into tatters, be ripped into shreds of useless trash… they could be thrown into an eternal darkness that would slowly but surely drive them insane… or they could walk away unharmed.”  
  
Annoyed, Ryoma snarled. _If you don’t want to show yourself, then I’ll pull you out of the dark myself!_ He siphoned off the earth’s raw magic, pulling more and more, his bare feet touching the ground and acting as amplifiers. A swirl of bright yellow enveloped the ball of witchlight he held with a hand, and as the room was illuminated with the amplified light, a dark, cloaked form was revealed.  
  
Ryoma’s eyes narrowed.  
  
“You.”  
  
“A pleasant evening to you, Your Royal Highness,” the cloaked messenger hailed, stepping forward and dropping to his knee in a graceful bow. Ryoma’s attentive eyes, however, could see the entirely too amused smile curving upon the messenger’s lips.  
  
Ryoma’s arm lashed out, and the cloaked messenger was suddenly gone from the floor, pinned by a wave of power against the stone wall. “Where is ‘Mitsu?”  
  
“Ah, now,” the messenger coughed, swallowing with great difficulty. The solid wall of magic pinning him to the wall shimmered, pulsed, and threatened to press harder. “I’m sure Your Highness can find him without this lowly messenger’s help.”  
  
The messenger’s eyes flashed a bright blue, and suddenly, Ryoma was pinning empty air against the stone wall. Whirling in anger, he lashed a huge wave of magic towards the messenger, who barely managed to sidestep and save his arm. The cloak’s clasp, however, was cleanly sheared through into two. Dark cloth fell to reveal the Monasteries’ standard magistrate robes underneath, accompanied by a face Ryoma was not familiar with — a face that Ryoma would be sure to remember for the rest of his (very long) life.  
  
“What an utter shame,” sighed the messenger, bending down and picking up the sheared cloak. “This was woven from Seir spidersilk — very expensive, very tough. It was my favorite.” With a peculiar turn of his wrist, the cloth disappeared into thin air. He turned towards Ryoma. “Impressive, Your Highness. The magic you possess certainly is very potent. Having been drawing from it for the past ten years, I can vouch for it.”  
  
“You are not of the Kingdom,” Ryoma muttered under his breath, comprehension dawning upon him. “You are of the Empire.”  
  
The deceptively kind face gently formed a smile. “My name is Yukimura, Your Highness. Yukimura Seiichi.”  
  
Ryoma’s eyes widened. “The Yukimura clan…”  
  
“I would appreciate it if Your Highness desists from associating me with such a useless clan.” The smile never wavered from the messenger Yukimura’s face, and the voice’s tone never changed, though the dark blue eyes hardened with heavy intensity.  
  
“What do you have to gain from this?!” Ryoma railed in anger. “Why did you have to include ‘Mitsu? It was me you wanted, no? My magic — take it! I don’t care. Leave ‘Mitsu alone!”  
  
“Ah, yes,” nodded Yukimura, crossing his arms behind his back. He tilted his head sideways, as if an intellectual perusing a thought-provoking but peculiar philosophy. “Tezuka Kunimitsu, one of the strongest — if not the strongest — mages of the Monasteries. At first, he was inconsequential within my plans, but soon the necessity of disposal became apparent when his involvement with you deepened — I’d hoped he’d stop visiting you after that first meeting. Things would have gone according to plan. But no! He had to fall for you!” Yukimura chuckled. “On top of that, he saw the cracks in the wards. That shrill friend of his, Kikumaru, helped confirm his suspicions — Kikumaru has extraordinary eyesight, you see. He was the first to realize the truth about the Elders as well.” The messenger’s voice was rolling, gentle, warm — completely betraying his real nature. Ryoma could feel a natural charm about this person. No wonder his younger self completely fell for the lies so easily uttered by this stranger.  
  
“I’d very much like to adjust that thought. _I_ was the first one who discovered the truth about the Elders — Tezuka was far too busy mooning over his new love to notice a single thing amiss,” an even gentler voice interjected from the same entrance Ryoma used. Eyes turned towards the intruder. “My, what a jolly gathering! Good evening.” A brown-haired and similarly smiling mage — a strong one, at that — stood there, seemingly relaxed. A ribbon of his magic, however, poised for both defensive and offensive action at any moment.  
  
“Who are you?” Ryoma barked, irritated. Too many roadblocks!  
  
“I am a mage, Your Highness, and I am also Tezuka’s friend,” the brown-haired intruder said, still wearing the same unsettling smile. In a second-snap, Ryoma immediately felt the blood relation between Yukimura and Fuji. He did not even need to go as far as feeling for their magic — simply seeing their identical deceptive smiles was enough. Somehow, though, he felt something _off_ with the blend of the magical signatures.  
  
“Fuji,” Yukimura the messenger greeted, ever the picture of calmness. “How unexpected. I would have thought you would be sleeping, like the rest of the Monasteries is.”  
  
“The rest of the Monasteries except the Elders who are performing the stripping rite, you mean,” Fuji inputted. His smile widened. “Yes, well, the crickets deemed it a fine night to sing into my ears and deny me the luxury of a deep slumber.” He turned towards Ryoma, blue eyes softening. “Your Highness, you should hurry forward. Tezuka’s life is in danger. You can leave this to me.”  
  
A deadly glint flashed within the depths of Fuji’s blue eyes, and Ryoma deemed it wise to leave the two feuding cousins behind. He turned and deftly leapt over the runes lined and carved and set in Earthlust stone, blasting the wooden door open with magic and sprinting past it without a single backwards glance.  
  
“We will meet again, Your Highness.”  
  
It was a faint whisper, steadily fading within the darkness, but it reached Ryoma’s ears all the same.

 

~

 

 _Just how long is this hallway?_  
  
His breath misted as the air grew stale and cold. His bare feet, battered and bruised, smarted from the sting of icy stone. His cheeks were flushed bright with his exertion, his muscles aching in protest. He was ascending, further up the Monasteries’ dark towers. It was every bit as he’d imagined it when he was younger, from what he could see of it from the West quarters. It was dark, dank, and depressing, the very epitome of death and desolate loneliness. He was uneasy, but he was not afraid. His magic ran with him, and even now he could feel the fine silky film of raw power against his skin. His magic, the earth, nature, the voices, they comforted him.  
  
The darkness was endless. The hallway turned and twisted, left and right, but it was a single path, never straying. He faintly worried about Yukimura the messenger and Tezuka’s friend Fuji, but he could not afford to waste time. His Tezuka’s very life was at high risk. He simply had no choice but to trust the brown-haired smiling mage to take care of the messenger for him.  
  
He was spared from further worry when his witchlight showed him the end of the hallway. There, in front of him, was an immaculate iron-wrought solid door, embedded with glimmering crystals symbolizing the constellations. Beyond it Ryoma could smell the heavy scent of blood and forbidden magic.  
  
Bracing himself, he extinguished the witchlight and relaxed his hands. His fingers tingled. Raw power from deep within the earth stirred, and as his eyes fell into a close, he could feel his core wake. He drew forth more, and more and more, until he shone within the darkness, his magic manifesting as a bright golden light.  
  
Removing his hand from the wall, he turned towards the door and lifted a hand — the door, pure iron, imploded.  
  
Stepping into the threshold, Ryoma’s golden eyes glimmered in anticipation. A swirl of heavy golden magic enclosed him, banishing the surrounding darkness. The wide ritual room, a familiar circular shape, was surrounded by gigantic supporting pillars. The torches were lit, and through the glass ceiling, Ryoma could see the bare and darkened night sky.  
  
However, when his wide eyes descended upon the single form in the center of the gigantic circular room, the magic withered.  
  
 _Too late…_  
  
“’M—Mitsu…”  
  
There, in the very center of the room, lay Tezuka. On a dais raised a few inches from the cold floor he lay, as still as a slumbering corpse. Not a single breath disturbed the air in the room. Death stench wafted with the magic, touching his nostrils, making his eyes smart and his throat clog. The torchlight was cold and unnerving, and cast unwelcome shadows upon the unconscious mage’s face.  
  
Ryoma quaked. His feet, numb as they were, stumbled him forward. His eyes, stinging with tears, were disbelieving. He knelt. His hands, cold and clammy, touched Tezuka’s face.  
  
“’Mitsu? ‘Mitsu, wake up,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “It’s me. It’s Ryoma.”  
  
  
 _“If you need anything,” Tezuka began. “If you need me to come to you, tie this around the porch’s pillar where I can see it from the Monastery. I shall come.”  
  
With that, Tezuka spun on his heel and headed for the Monasteries. But before he could walk past the turn, a weak and hesitant voice called out behind him, “My name…”  
  
He stopped, turning partly.  
  
“…my name… is Ryoma.”_  
  
  
Pulling on his magic, he warmed and thickened the stale cold air around them. Gently, very gently, he pressed his lips against Tezuka’s, yearning for even just a single stir — but there was none.  
  
Hot tears streamed down his cheek as he struggled to deny the obvious truth. Around him were four cornerstones, and atop them were bejeweled mirrors — appropriate tools for stripping magic. They were tinted a shimmering blue-violet, the color of Tezuka’s magic. They stole away what was bound by birth to Tezuka’s soul, they robbed his Tezuka of birthright. They were the darkest and most forbidden form of magic – they were _abominable_. Ryoma’s eyes scrunched up tight – the mirrors shattered and rained around them in shimmering pieces, a curtain of diamonds, beautiful, yet soulless.  
  
This was a punishment, Ryoma knew. This was the Monasteries’ punishment to Tezuka for breaking the West quarter’s seal, and for repairing the wards on his own. This was the Monasteries’ — no, this was Yukimura’s retribution to those who stood in the way of his plans.  
  
  
 _“Kunimitsu?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
A hand settled over the mage’s chest. “I will be right beside you.” No matter what you will be facing, I will be right beside you.  
  
Tezuka leans down and places a soft kiss upon the boy’s forehead. “…I know.”_  
  
  
“’Mitsu, wake up,” he begged, voice breaking. “Please. Wake up.”  
  
“It’s too late, young prince,” a deep voice said. A group of Elders emerged from behind the pillars, but Ryoma paid them no heed. “Tezuka Kunimitsu is no longer a mage. His magical core has been stripped from him, and soon he shall succumb to the void. His death is only a matter of time.”  
  
Ryoma was not paying attention. He gently lifted Tezuka’s head, cradling the limp form against his chest, placing soft kisses upon a cold brow. “You promised me, ‘Mitsu. You promised me you would stay.”  
  
  
 _“Will you stay with me?”  
  
Tezuka gave him a small smile. “If you wish me to.”_  
  
  
“The mage is no longer alive, little prince!” another Elder barked. “Give it up and surrender! Retreat within your quarters and we shall pretend this never happened! You shall not be punished if you—“  
  
“ **SILENCE**!”  
  
  
 _“All I need is a promise, Kunimitsu. Promise me you will always be here for me.”  
  
“Always. I promise.”_  
  
  
“ **You, a lowly mage, do not have the right to command me, a rightful prince of this Kingdom!** ”  
  
Ryoma’s voice neared a roar, reverberating through the Monastery tower’s very walls. The pillars thrummed with magic, the floor warmed with power. Ryoma’s eyes, glinting gold under firelight, lit up. The swirl of raw earth magic returned, stronger, fiercer, wilder.  
  
Anguished, angrier.  
  
Out of control.  
  
“ **You, a lowly mage, do not have the right to take away what has been given by nature!** ”  
  
Clutching Tezuka to his chest, he unconsciously drew on the magic. More and more, until the density within the room was unbearable and suffocating, until the very pillars groaned under the weight and strain. Far below the towers, Ryoma could hear the first cracks of weakened stone.  
  
“ **You, a lowly mage, do not have the right to touch what is MINE!** ”  
  
Outside the ritual chamber’s walls, panicking mages woke from their slumber, unable to ignore the call and pull of raw power, the crumbling slabs of stone overhead. The spell of sleep was broken. The trees swayed back and forth, as if in a war dance. The wind whipped and lashed and roared, the heavens clouded and clapped with thunder and storm. Nature itself was echoing the anger and the pain Ryoma felt.  
  
Hot tears were still streaming freely from Ryoma’s wrathful eyes, burning his skin. He held Tezuka close, the scene in his vision flashing to his consciousness with frightening clarity, a nightmare he would forever suffer. Tezuka held up by floating cornerstones, arms spread as if in crucifixion. Tezuka’s hoarse scream as the magic was literally ripped apart from his soul. Tezuka’s eyes drooping as the last of the life force was taken. Tezuka’s lips moving to form one last word — _Ryoma_.  
  
Ryoma’s rage rose, and with it his magic — he released an anguished cry, a cry that echoed through the heavens. The glass ceiling shattered as lightning struck, breaking through the protective wards as metal would pierce through onion skin. Shimmering shards fell upon their heads, heavy glass cutting through skin and bone of those too slow to lift shields. Three of the Elders fell to the stone floor in a pool of blood and detached limbs. The rest of them were taken by the magic, branded and stripped of power – Ryoma relished the same screams of suffering they gave before they were consumed by his Summoned hellfire.  
  
At that point, thought, it was all too much.  
  
Releasing his hold on the magic, Ryoma screamed, his eyes glowing a bright gold-white. The entire chamber swam in a blinding flash of white light, and in the dead of the night the tower was a beacon to the entire Kingdom.  
  
And then the pillars crumbled.

 

~

 

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to let you go,” Ryoma murmured against Tezuka’s temple. “I’m not going to let you go, ‘Mitsu. You will not die.” In the midst of the crumbling pillars, he placed a single palm upon Tezuka’s heart.  
  
The magic gathered and pulsed under his hand. Ryoma pulled, more and more, trying his very hardest to heal the torn soul, to replace the stolen magic. He poured pure earth magic into Tezuka’s very being, begging, praying, hoping…  
  
“You shall live, ‘Mitsu. For me. For us.”  
  
The flagstone floors began to crumble, and beneath them there was a flurry of panic from the resident mages, but Ryoma was oblivious. His eyes settled upon Tezuka’s face.  
  
 _Breathe for me._  
  
Tezuka’s eyes snapped open, his chest shuddering in a single breath of air.  
  
  
  
 _Under the fading sunset, Ryoma’s eyes danced happily with contentment and bliss. He once more smiled up at Tezuka, a smile of pure happiness. “I love you.”_


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "[A Ripple Song (with Uta)](http://www.divshare.com/download/4467394-d7d)" from the soundtrack of the Japanese movie _Shindou_.

“How is life in the castle treating you, Uncle?” Keigo asked a pensive Nanjiroh with a small smile. The young King leaned against the veranda’s balustrade. In the far distance, the Monastery’s crumbled towers were barely visible over the tall trees.  
  
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances, I suppose,” sighed Nanjiroh. There was nothing else left to be said, but there was a mountain of things left to be done. “Ryoma?”  
  
“He is resting.” Keigo shifted slightly, a slight frown on his face. “The ordeal four nights ago left him exhausted nearly to the point of death, and yet he still had enough strength to wake and argue with Aunt Rinko.”  
  
“Argue?” chuckled Nanjiroh. “Is it about the mage again?”  
  
The first time Ryoma woke was a full day after the tower’s complete destruction, and the first thing the boy had asked for was Tezuka. He did not even ask where he was, what happened, why his parents were present — all he wanted was to see Tezuka. Only after they allowed him to do so did he calm down enough to ask the questions he was supposed to be asking.  
  
“Yes,” Keigo heaved a heavy, exasperated sigh. “He is completely and utterly smitten, Uncle. I fear he will only hurt himself.”  
  
“All we can do, Keigo,” Nanjiroh said, “is to pray and hope that the mage will recover. For if he does not, then Ryoma…”  
  
Words were not needed to convey the meaning.  
  
“…I know.”  
  
A stretch of somber silence followed, before Nanjiroh spoke once more. “How goes the search for the Empire’s spy sorcerers?”  
  
“Quite well, in fact,” Keigo said, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Ryoma’s magic, it seems, called upon nature itself to brand, strip, and burn all mages and sorcerers included within the Empire’s plans. I expect Yukimura miscalculated Ryoma’s strength.”  
  
“No,” Nanjiroh countered. “He did not miscalculate Ryoma’s strength. He would not make such a mistake. What he miscalculated was nature’s strength and Ryoma’s connection to it.”  
  
Keigo nodded. “The Monastery will be reinstated, and each mage will be reinvestigated, but overseeing it is still a debatable problem. The Royal Court has yet to make a decision.”  
  
“How about letting the Echizen clan oversee it?”  
  
“Yuushi,” snapped Keigo. “Would you stop sneaking around behind my back? One day I might lash out and accidentally skewer you on a spike.”  
  
“I am honored that His Majesty thinks for my wellbeing,” smirked the bespectacled mage.  
  
“Oh, shut up.” Nanjiroh fancied himself a chortle as Keigo grumbled to himself. “How about it, Uncle?” Keigo suddenly asked.  
  
“Take over the Monastery?” Nanjiroh raised both his eyebrows in disbelief. “ _Me_?”  
  
“It is not a bad idea,” Keigo shrugged. “As long as Aunt Rinko is there to make sure you refrain from skiving off your duties, I do not see any problem with said arrangement.”  
  
Nanjiroh stared at both Keigo and Yuushi. Young and yet burdened with a million responsibilities, taking care of and maintaining a prosperous Kingdom, striving to guarantee the safety of their people… oh, how the war has stolen their youth. Nanjiroh could still remember when these two young lads had to worry of naught but what game to play for the afternoon.  
  
Certainly, if he took over the Monastery, the chances of another mage spy would be lessened, and the loyalty of the remaining mages to the Kingdom would be reinforced. The wards would also be strengthened, a probable five times stronger than before.  
  
But was his family ready for such a burden? Things were moving far too fast, as if unable to wait for the next dawn. The Kingdom could feel the clouds of war descending upon it. Ryoma’s ridding the Kingdom of the mage spies was an unquestionable declaration of war. News of what had transpired would have already reached the Kingdom’s ears, especially given the fact that Yukimura, the cloaked messenger who had tricked Ryoma, escaped into the darkness of night. (They drew immense satisfaction – Ryoma, especially – after being informed by Fuji that Yukimura had not escaped without his own fair share of severe wounds.)  
  
“I am not yet sure, Keigo,” Nanjiroh finally replied. “I have to consider Ryoma first and foremost. He is not yet recovered, and will not be for some time. I know for a fact that he will not completely recover until the mage awakens — who knows when _that_ will be. But I shall talk to him and to Rinko, and we shall see.”  
  
Keigo nodded in understanding. “Thank you, Uncle. It would be a great help.” The young King turned towards the city, and far to the horizon, the borders of the Empire. “The drums of war are sounding once more. We need all the help we can get.”

 

~

 

Gently, Ryoma woke from his dream. His eyes fluttered open, bleary and disoriented. The hand he held was warm, but still. He lifted his head from where it had been resting beside Tezuka’s pillow, and his eyes rested upon Tezuka’s sleeping face.  
  
A faint smile ghosted upon his lips as he remembered his dream.  
  
  
 _“’Mitsu?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“You will keep coming for me, won’t you?” Ryoma whispered into the night.  
  
Tezuka pulled the smaller body closer. “Of course. You know I will.”  
  
“No matter what happens?”  
  
“No matter what happens,” Tezuka assured the boy. “Don’t worry, Ryoma. Everything will be fine. I will always come back for you.”_  
  
  
“You will come back, won’t you?” Ryoma whispered, pressing his lips against Tezuka’s. “I know you will. And I will wait for you. Until you wake, I will be right here.”  
  
The serene sunset gave the room a golden glow. After a few moments of silence spent holding Tezuka’s warm hand and gazing at the mage’s peaceful visage, Ryoma stood and made towards the other end of the room, where a regal grand piano stood.  
  
Gently, he rested his fingers upon the keys.  
  
  
  
As soft ripples upon water, the notes weaved into one another, until the melody simply flowed from his fingers. This was the same song that as a child, he had made with his flute. This was the same song that as a child, he had asked his mother to name for him. This was the very same song that he had made for his father, his loving father — this was the song that symbolized the youth and innocence that was taken away from him. This was the same song Tezuka fell in love with, the song Ryoma had planned on teaching him.  
  
This was his song.  
  
The notes were born and became calm waves. Certain gentleness was woven in between the phrases, and he could feel warmth being drawn forth from within his chest. He could see in his mind’s eye the shimmer of rippling water against a warm, gentle sunset. One ripple, and then another, and another — the cycle was never-ending.  
  
He felt the presence of his father, his mother, Keigo, and Yuushi by the door, but he paid them no heed. The notes flowed as he siphoned off his love and his sadness, his joy and his pain. Finally, he had escaped the darkness. Finally, he lived within light once more.  
  
And yet where was the meaning of life when his love was taken away from him?  
  
He had tried his hardest to give Tezuka back his magic, and he succeeded — but Tezuka’s mind had not fully recovered, torn and tattered as it was from the rite. He would be in deep sleep until his mind fully recovered — but until when? Ryoma did not know. And Ryoma did not think he could live without knowing.  
  
As the song gently lapsed into a close, he uttered a small sigh. His fingers lay motionless upon the keys.  
  
“So you finished the song,” Nanjiroh remarked faintly. “It’s beautiful.”  
  
“I finished it two moons past,” Ryoma explained. “When I was inside the room, I could do nothing. It was all darkness. Until ‘Mitsu opened the door.”  
  
“Why was he there?” Nanjiroh asked, entertaining the train of thought. Rinko made her way to the bedside to check the mage’s status.  
  
“He said he was simply passing by,” Ryoma smiled. “He was running late. He needed a shortcut.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
Ryoma gazed up at Keigo. “Why are you all here? I thought there was a Council assembly.”  
  
“Aunt Rinko said she had something to tell us,” Keigo said. “About your condition.”  
  
Ryoma frowned, retracting his hands from the keys and placing them on his lap. “My condition? I’m perfectly healthy. I do not even have a single scratch on my entire body. My magic will recover in a few more days. There is nothing to worry about.” He paused, searching his mother’s serious face as she sat herself on the chair beside the bed. “…is there?”  
  
Rinko pursed her lips.  
  
“Come now, Rinko,” Nanjiroh coaxed. “Is it serious?”  
  
A sigh. “Well,” Rinko said. “Yes, it is quite a serious matter.”  
  
Keigo’s brow furrowed. “Then it is all the more important you tell us.”  
  
A stretch of silence followed.  
  
“It might be a little hard to believe. The condition is quite rare,” she spoke into her lap.  
  
No one spoke.  
  
Rinko lifted her head, her eyes meeting her son’s golden ones. “Ryoma, you are with child.”  
  


 

**_~ fin ~_  
**


End file.
